THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


THE  ENGLISH    FAMILIAR 
ESSAY 

REPRESENTATIVE  TEXTS 


EDITED,  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 

WILLIAM  FRANK  BRYAN,  Ph.D. 

AND 

RONALD  S.  CRANE,  Ph.D. 

OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH  OF  NORTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON     •     NEW   YORK     •     CHICAGO     •     LONDON 
ATLANTA     •     DALLAS     •     COLUMBUS     •     SAN    FRANCISCO 


B7S 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  WILLIAM  FRANK  BRYAN 

AND  RONALD  S.  CRANE 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

317-7 


(Cfae   gtftenaum   igreutt 

GINN  ANb   COMPANY  •  I'KO- 
PKIHTOKS  •.  UUSTIJN  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

Probably  no  one  will  undertake  to  controvert  the  statement  that  a 
definition  of  the  essay  has  not  yet  been  made  both  inclusive  enough 
to  cover  all  the  different  kinds  of  prose  to  which  the  name  has  been 
given  and  still  sufficiently  restrictive  to  mark  out  any  particular  quali- 
ties which  distinguish  the  essay  from  any  other  comparatively  brief 
composition.  An  attempt  to  discover  the  characteristics  common  to 
Locke's  "  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,"  Lamb's  "  Dissertation 
on  Roast  Pig,"  Macaulay's  "  Warren  Hastings,"  Carlyle's  "  Essay  on 
Burns,"  and  Arnold's  "Sweetness  and  Light"  would  pretty  surely 
demonstrate  that  these  various  pieces  of  literature  do  not  belong  to  any 
single,  unified  genre.  There  are,  however,  a  large  number  of  writings 
commonly  called  "  essays  "  which  have  traditionally  been  felt  to  consti- 
tute a  distinct  type.  These  are  characterized  by  a  personal,  confidential 
attitude  of  the  writers  toward  their  subjects  and  their  readers,  by  an 
informal,  familiar  stvle,  and  by  a  concern  with  everyday  manners  and 
morals  or  with  individual  emotions  and  experiences  rather  than  with 
public  affairs  or  the  material  of  systematic  thinking.  It  is  with  the 
essay  of  this  more  narrowly  limited  t}'pe  —  perhaps  best  called  the 
Familiar  Essay  —  that  the  present  volume  is  exclusively  concerned. 

Li  treating  the  Familiar  Essay  the  editors  have  designed  not  to 
furnish  models  for  a  course  in  English  composition  or  to  compile  an 
anthology,  but  to  present  such  a  selection  of  texts  as  will  exhibit 
clearly  the  development  of  the  genre  in  England.  The  complete  ac- 
complishment of  this  purpose  has  made  it  necessary,  of  course,  to 
begin  outside  of  England  with  Montaigne,  the  originator  of  the  type, 
and  to  include  specimens  of  his  essays.  A  similar  consideration  has 
led  to  the  inclusion  of  a  brief  extract  from  La  Bruyere.  But  with  these 
exceptions  only  British  writers  are  represented.  However  delightful  or 
stimulating  are  the  essays  of  Irving  and  Emerson  and  Lowell,  they 
have  not  affected  the  development  of  the  type ;  and  regard  for  unity 
of  purpose,  combined  with  lack  of  space,  compels  their  exclusion. 
Further,  instead  of  presenting  one  or  two  essays  each  by  a  great 


iv  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

number  of  writers,  the  collection  is  confined  to  the  works  of  the  most 
significant  and  influential  essayists,  in  the  belief  that  an  adequate 
representation  of  their  work  is  the  truest  way  of  making  clear  the 
evolution  of  the  type.  The  selection  of  the  individual  essays,  however, 
has  been  made  with  as  much  regard  to  their  intrinsic  interest  and 
charm  as  to  their  historical  significance. 

As  this  collection  is  prepared  not  for  the  scholar-specialist  but  for 
the  general  reader  and  the  college  undergraduate,  the  spelling  and  the 
punctuation  have  been  revised  wherever  adherence  to  earlier  usage 
would  baffle  or  seriously  annoy  the  reader.  The  essays  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  the  eighteenth  centuries  have  been  modernized  to  this 
extent ;  those  of  the  nineteenth  century,  in  this  respect,  have  been, 
left  almost  wholly  untouched.  In  every  case  the  texts  of  the  essays 
are  those  of  standard  editions,  and  they  have  been  carefully  collated 
wherever  collation  has  seemed  advisable. 

The  introduction  tries  to  present  in  the  briefest  possible  compass 
an  ordered  account  of  the  historical  development  of  the  Familiar 
Essay  in  England  ;  and  for  this  sketch  especial  effort  has  been  made 
to  secure  accuracy  in  matters  of  both  fact  and  inference.  For  the 
section  on  Montaigne,  and  Bacon's  relationship  to  Montaigne,  the 
editors  are  deeply  indebted  to  the  careful  and  illuminating  monographs 
of  M.  Pierre  Villey ;  their  obligations  to  other  studies  of  the  various 
essayists,  though  very  considerable,  do  not  demand  here  such  par- 
ticularization.  A  large  part  of  the  material  for  the  introduction  they 
have  gathered  from  the  original  sources. 

The  notes,  it  is  hoped,  will  contribute  directly  to  an  intelligent  ap- 
preciation of  the  text.  Quotations  and  allusions  have  been  definitely 
placed,  in  order  to  throw  light  upon  the  extent  and  the  character  of 
the  reading  of  the  various  essayists ;  and  wherever  it  has  appeared 
that  an  explanation  or  a  statement  of  fact  would  really  be  of  service 
to  the  reader,  a  note  has  been  supplied.  The  notes,  though  full,  are 
not  compendiums  of  general  information,  but  each  concerns  immedi- 
ately the  passage  in  the  text  to  which  it  is  related.  All  foreign  words 
and  phrases  have  been  translated  ;  the  meaning  of  an  English  word, 
however,  has  been  given  only  when  the  word  is  used  in  a  sense  not 
made  clear  in  the  sort  of  dictionary  presumably  owned  by  any  person 
who  wishes  to  read  intelligently.  The  bibliographical  essay,  like  the 
notes,  is  intended  to  be  of  practical  utility  to  the  general  student  and 


PREFACE  V 

reader.  It  includes  the  titles  of  only  the  most  notable  complete  edi- 
tions, of  the  most  satisfactory  inexpensive  editions  of  the  essays  or  of 
selections  from  them,  and  of  a  small  number  of  studies  which  contain 
pertinent  and  valuable  information  on  the  development  of  the  type 
or  on  the  individual  essayists,  or  which  will  be  of  definite  assistance 
to  the  reader  who  desires  fuller  information  than  he  can  obtain  from 
the  necessarily  compacted  introduction  and  notes  of  this  volume. 

Throughout  this  work  both  editors  have  collaborated  closely,  and 
both  are  equally  responsible  for  selection  and  arrangement ;  but  each 
acknowledges  a  more  definite  accountability  for  certain  sections.  The 
preparation  of  the  text  for  the  seventeenth  and  the  eighteenth  cen- 
turies, with  the  acconi]3anying  notes  and  the  corresponding  section  of 
the  introduction,  is  the  work  of  Dr.  Crane ;  for  the  material  of  the 
nineteenth  century  Dr.  Bryan  is  similarly  responsible. 

The  editors  desire  to  acknowledge  gratefully  their  obligations  to 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  permission  to  reprint  Stevenson's  "'I'he 
Lantern  Bearers,"  and  to  the  Newberry  Library  and  the  libraries  of 
Harvard  University  and  of  Northwestern  University  for  serv^ices  that 
have  made  the  work  possible.  To  their  former  colleague,  Mr.  Herbert 
K.  Stone,  now  of  the  University  of  Illinois,  and  to  their  present  col- 
leagues and  friends,  Professor  Keith  Preston,  Messrs.  George  B. 
Denton,  J.  B.  McKinney,  and  Arthur  H.  Ncthercot,  they  desire  also 
to  express  their  appreciation  of  assistance  generously  given.  Almost 
every  page   of   the   introduction   owes    something  to   Mr.  Denton's 

keen  and  thoughtful  criticism. 

W.  F.  B. 
EvANSTON,  Illinois  R.  S.  C. 


CONTENTS  1 

PAGE 

A  History  of  the  English  Familiar  Essay 

I.  Montaigne  and  the  Beginnings  of  the  Essay  in  England  .     .     ,  xi 

II.  The  Periodical  Essay  of  the  Eighteenth  Century         ....  xxiv 

III.  The  New  Magazine  Essay  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  .     .     .  xli 

Michel  de  IVIontaigne 

The  Author  to  the  Reader I 

Of  Sorrow        2 

Of  Repentance 5 

Sir  Francis  Bacon 

Of  Studies 22 

Of  Empire 24 

Of  Truth 30 

Of  Death 32 

Of  Adversity 34 

Of  Envy 35 

Of  Travel 39 

Of  Friendship 42 

Of  Plantations 48 

Of  Gardens 51 

xA.braham  Cowley 

The  Dangers  of  an  Honest  Man  in  Much  Corqpany 58 

Of  Myself 63 

Seventeenth  Century  Characters 

A  Mere  Young  Gentleman  of  the  University       ....       Earle  69 

A  Contemplative  Man Earle  70 

[The  Character  of  Arrias]        La  Bruycre  70 

The  Tatler 

No.  I.       [Prospectus] Steele  73 

No.  29.     [On  Duelling] Steele  75 

'  Titles  of  essays  in  brackets  have  been  supplied  by  the  editors. 

vii 


vni 


THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 


No.  95.     [Happy  Marriage] Steele  77 

No.  132.  [The  Club  at  the  Trumpet] Steele  82 

No.  158.  [The  Character  of  Tom  Folio]       ....       Addison  86 

No.  181.  [Recollections] Steele  89 

No.  230.  [False  Refinements  in  Style]     .      .     .    Steele  and  Swift  93 

No.  244.  [On  Conversation] Steele  96 


The  Spectator 

No.  I .        [The  Character  of  Mr.  Spectator]       .     .     .       Addison 

No.  2.        [The  Spectator  Club] Steele 

No.  7.        [Popular  Superstitions] Addison 

No.  10.     [The  Purpose  of  The  Spcct(itor'\  ....       Addison 

No.  23.     [Ill-Nature  in  Satire] Addison 

No.  26.     [Meditations  in  Westminster  Abbey]       .      .       Addison 

No.  49.     [Coffee-house  Company] Steele 

No.  50.     [The  Journal  of  the  Indian  Kings]     .      .     .       Addison 

No.  66.     [The  Education  of  Girls] Steele 

No.  106.  [Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  Home]  .  .  .  Addison 
No.  108.  [The  Character  of  Will  Wimble]  .  .  .  .  Addison 
No.  123.  [The  Story  of  Eudoxus  and  Leontine]    .     .        jlddison 

No.  1 59.  [The  Vision  of  Mirza] Addison 

No.  281.   [A  Coquette's  Heart] Addison 

No.  323.   [Clarinda's  Journal] Addison 

No.  381.  [Cheerfulness] Addison 

No.  409.  [Literary  Taste] Addison 

No.  422.  [On  Raillery] Steele 

No.  477.  [On  Gardens] Addison 


The  Rambler  Jolinson 

No.  29.     [The  Folly  of  Anticipating  Misfortunes] 171 

No.  42.     [The  Misery  of  a  Fashionable  Lady  in  the  Country]       .      175 


The  Ci  tizen  of  the  World 


Golds//, 


[The  Chinese  Philosopher  in  England]     . 
[First  Impressions  of  England]  .... 

[National  Characteristics] 

[The  Character  of  Beau  Tibbs]  .... 
[The  Character  of  Beau  Tibbs  (Continued)] 


Letter  I. 

Letter  II. 

Letter  IV. 

Letter  LIV. 

Letter  LV. 

Letter  LXXVII.  [A  Visit  to  a  London  Silk  Merchant] 


//// 


180 
180 

183 
186 
189 
193 


CONTENTS  IX 

,_—  PAGE 

Charles  Lamjb__.,...,---^  V' 

A  A  Bachelor's  Complaint  of  the  Behaviour  of  Married  People   .     .  196 

^Valentine's  Day 203 

"*" Christ's  Hospital  Hvc  and  Thirty  Years  Ago 207 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 220 

Imperfect  Sympathies 226 

/■Dream-Children;  a  Reverie 235 

^The  Praise  of  Chimney-Sweepers 239 

Detached  Thoughts  on  Books  and  Reading 247 

Modern  Gallantry 253 

Old  China 25S 

T'oor  Relations 264 

The  Superannuated  Man 271 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt 

Autumnal  Commencement  of  Fires 279 

Getting  Up  on  Cold  Mornings 282 

The  Old  Gentleman 285 

Deaths  of  Little  Children 290 

Shaking  Hands 294 

William  Hazlitt 

On  Reading  Old  Books 297 

On,  Going  a  Journey 310 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth 321 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

Tunbridge  Toys 333 

On  Being  Found  Out 339 

De  Finibus 347 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Walking  Tours 357 

On  Falling  in  Love 3^5 

The  Lantern-Bearers 374 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 3^7 

NOTES 393 


A  HISTORY  OF  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR 

ESSAY 

I.    MONTAIGNE  AND  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF 
THE    ESSAY  IN  ENGLAND 

The  Familiar  Essay  made  its  first  appearance  in  England  during 
one  of  the  most  crowded  and  prolific  periods  of  her  literary  his- 
tory —  the  last  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century.  As  a  distinct  type 
of  prose  writing  it  was  not  native  to  England,  although  many  of  the 
literary  practices  out  of  which  it  developed  were  to  be  found  there, 
as  in  most  of  the  countries  of  Europe.  The  direct  stimulus  to  its 
cultivation  by  English  writers  came  from  France. 

In  the  year   1570   a  French  gentleman,   Michel  de    Montaigne, 

gave  up  his  post  as  a  lawyer  in  Bordeaux  and  retired  to  his  country 

.  estates,  for  the  purpose,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  of 

(1533-1592) :    "  living  in  quiet  and  reading."     In   his   education  and 

his  education   tastes  Montaigne  was  a  typical  cultured  Frenchman  of 

and  tastes 

the  Renaissance.  At  the  instance  of  his  father,  an  enthu- 
siastic admirer  of  Italian  humanism,  he  was  taught  Latin  before  he 
learned  French,  and  at  college  he  had  among  his  tutors  some  of  the 
most  accomplished  classical  scholars  of  the  time.  His  culture  conse- 
quently took  on  a  very  pronounced  Latin  and  Italian  tinge ;  Greek 
writers  he  read  with  difficulty,  and  by  preference  in  translations ;  and 
his  interest  in  earlier  and  contemporary  French  literature  was  limited 
to  a  few  authors  and  books,  principally  in  the  field  of  history.  Above 
all,  as  he  grew  older  he  became  absorbed  in  the  moral  problems 
which  the  revival  of  the  literatures  and  philosophies  of  antiquity, 
together  with  the  discovery  of  America,  had  brought  to  the  fore  all 
over  Europe.  It  was  doubtless  to  gain  more  time  for  reflection  on 
these  questions  that  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven  he  abandoned  active 
life  for  a  quiet  existence  in  his  library  at  Montaigne.  He  had  not 
been  there  long  before  a  natural  desire  to  "  preserve  his  memories  " 
and  to  "  clarify  his  reflections  "  led  him  to  write. 


xii  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  form  which  his  first  compositions  took  was  in  no  sense  origi- 
nal with  him.    By  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  there  had  come 

^     into  existence,  in  nearly  all  the  countries  touched  by  the 
Sources  and  '      .  •'  .  ^ 

character  of  Renaissance,  various  types  of  works  designed  to  make  ac- 
his  early  cessiblc  the  knowledge  and  ideas  of  antiquity.  Some  of 
these  had  themselves  an  antique  origin.  Thus,  from  the 
so-called  Distichs  of  Cafo,  a  work  dating  from  the  late  Roman  Empire, 
proceeded  a  long  line  of  collections  of  "  sentences,"  or  moral  maxims, 
of  which  Erasmus's  Adagia  (1500)  was  perhaps  the  most  celebrated 
—  books  in  which  were  bnuight  together,  sometimes  under  general 
heads  such  as  ''  education,"  "  the  brevity  of  life,"  "  death,"  "  youth 
( and  age,"  "  riches,"  etc.,  wise  sayings  of  ancient  and  often,  too,  of  mod- 
ern authors.  Similarly,  the  influence  of  Plutarch  (born  cir.  46  a.d.) 
and  of  Valerius  Maximus  (first  century  a.d.)  led  to  the  compilation 
of  numerous  books  of  apothegms,  or  "  sentences  "  put  into  the  mouths 
of  historical  personages,  and  of  "  examples,"  or  significant  anecdotes 
culled  from  the  writings  of  historians  and  moralists.  Works  of  this 
kind  enjoyed  an  extraordinary  vogue  during  the  Renaissance ;  they 
existed  in  nearly  all  the  modern  languages  as  well  as  in  Latin,  and 
some  of  them  ran  through  literally  hundreds  of  editions.  Strictly 
speaking,  however,  they  were  not  so  much  books  as  extremely  arid 
compilations  of  raw  material.  To  supplement  them,  and  to  present 
the  wisdom  of  antiquity  in  a  more  readable  form,  certain  humanists 
developed,  chiefly  from  hints  furnished  by  such  ancient  authors  as 
Aulus  Gellius  (2d  century  a.d.)  and  Macrobius  (5th  century  a.d.),  a 
special  type  of  writing,  commonly  called  in  France  the  lecon  morale,  in 
which  ''  sentences,"  apothegms,  and  ''  examples  "  were  fused  together 
in  short  dissertations  on  ethical  subjects.  The  writers  who  cultivated 
this  genre,  whether  in  Latin  or  in  the  various  vernaculars,  had  for 
the  most  part  a  purely  practical  object  —  to  collect  and  make  readily 
accessible  the  views  and  discoveries  of  the  ancients  on  all  questions 
relating  to  the  conduct  of  life.  They  attached  themselves  by  prefer- 
ence to  subjects  of  a  general  and  commonplace  sort,  such  as  strange 
customs  and  singular  happenings,  the  grandeur  and  misery  of  man, 
the  intelligence  of  animals,  the  moral  virtues,  the  force  of  the  imagi- 
nation, death ;  and  in  treatment  they  seldom  went  beyond  an  imper- 
sonal, unoriginal  grouping  of  maxims  and  ''  examples." 


INTRODUCTION  •  xiii 

When  Montaigne  began  to  write,  probably  in  157  i,  it  was  to  the 
compilers  of  lecons  that  he  looked  for  literary  inspiration.  It  was,  in- 
deed, only  natural  that  he  should  do  so ;  for  his  own  aims  in  writing 
were  at  first  almost  precisely  the  same  as  theirs.  He  had  no  ambition 
to  write  an  original  book  ;  he  wished  only  to  bring  together,  with  a 
minimum  of  effort,  the  interesting  and  helpful  passages  which  he  en- 
countered in  his  reading.  Accordingly,  his  first  compositions  belonged 
essentially  in  both  manner  and  matter  to  the  genre  which  these  com- 
pilers had  popularized.  Some  of  them,  as,  for  example,  a  little  piece 
entitled  "  That  the  Hour  of  Parley  is  Dangerous,"  were  merely  brief 
collections  of  anecdotes  and  '"'  sentences,"  unified  by  a  common  sub- 
ject ;  others,  such  as  "  Of  the  Inequality  Amongst  Us "  and  "  Of 
Sorrow,"  ^  had  a  somewhat  more  elaborate  organization,  but  were 
constructed  out  of  the  same  elements.  The  subjects,  all  of  them 
questions  of  morals  or  practical  affairs,  had  nearly  all  been  treated 
already  by  one  or  another  of  the  numerous  writers  of  Iccoiis.  In 
dealing  with  them  afresh  Montaigne  displayed  an  impersonality  of 
method  quite  as  marked  as  that  of  any  of  his  predecessors.  Now 
and  then  he  developed  in  his  own  way  a  maxim  from  an  ancient 
writer,  added  a  word  of  comment  to  one  of  his  numerous  moral 
stories,  or  contributed  a  sentence  or  two  of  transition ;  but  beyond 
that  his  ambition  did  not  go ;  there  were  no  personal  confidences, 
no  revelations  of  his  own  experience  and  ideas. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  writings  with  which  Montaigne  oc- 
cupied himself  during  the  year  or  two  following  his  retirement.  His 
His  creation  subservience  to  the  ideals  and  methods  of  the  lecoti  w-as 
of  the  per-  complete.  About  1574,  however,  before  he  had  published 
sona  essay  anything,  a  change  began  in  his  conception  and  practice 
of  composition  which  was  to  result,  before  1580,  in  the  creation  of 
an  entirely  new  literary  form  —  the  personal  essay.  Among  the  in- 
fluences which  contributed  to  this  change  one  of  the  most  potent 
certainly  was  that  of  his  own  temperament.  Montaigne  had  brought 
into  his  retirement  a  strong  native  tendency  to  moral  reflection  and 
self-analysis  —  a  tendency  which  his  isolation  from  affairs,  and  especially 
a  severe  illness  which  he  underwent  about  1578,  no  doubt  helped  to 
intensify.  But  there  were  literary  factors  also  at  work.  Shortly  after 
1  See  pp.  2-5,  below. 


xiv  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

1572  he  fell  under  the  spell  of  the  writings  of  Plutarch,  then  lately- 
translated  into  French  by  Jacques  Amyot.  In  these,  particularly  in 
the  collection  of  short  moral  discourses  known  as  Moralia,  he  found 
models  of  a  very  different  sort  from  the  dry  and  impersonal  compila- 
tions Tie  had  imitated  hitherto.  Plutarch's  chapters  were,  it  is  true, 
full  of  maxims  and  "examples";  but  the  maxims  and  "examples"  did 
not  form  the  substance  of  the  composition  —  they  were  wholly  sub- 
ordinate to  the  personal  reflections  of  the  author.  The  naturalness 
and  freedom  from  pedantry  of  the  old  Greek  moralist  made  a  pro- 
found impression  on  Montaigne ;  he  seems  to  have  had  the  Moralia 
almost  constantly  before  him  during  a  period  of  several  years,  and 
their  influence  had  much  to  do  with  the  transformation  of  his  own 
methods  of  composition. 

This  transformation  first  appeared  clearly  in  a  number  of  pieces 
written  between  1578  and  1580.^  Content  no  longer  with  a  mere 
compilation  of  striking  passages  from  his  reading,  Montaigne  now 
aimed  to  give  primarily  his  own  reflections  on  moral  and  psychological 
subjects.  The  quotations  and  "  examples,"  it  is  true,  still  abounded  ; 
but  their  function  was  changed  ;  they  were  not,  as  before,  the  basis 
of  the  composition,  but  rather  simply  a  means  of  illustrating  the 
writer's  thought.  Moreover,  to  the  "  examples  "  drawn  from  books 
Montaigne  began  now  to  add  anecdotes  taken  from  his  own  memory 
and  observation.  Thus,  in  a  chapter  entitled  "  Of  the  Education  of 
Children,"  after  setting  forth  the  general  principles  which  should  govern 
in  the  training  of  children,  he  proceeded  to  give  a  sketch,  full  of  inti- 
mate details,  of  his  own  education.  Again,  in  the  chapter  "  Of  Books" 
he  discoursed  not  so  much  of  books  in  general  as  of  his  own  individ- 
ual tastes  and  prejudices  in  literature.  In  short,  the  chapters  written 
during  this  second  period  of  Montaigne's  career  tended  to  become 
each  a  tissue  of  personal  reflections,  colored,  to  be  sure,  but  no  longer 
dominated,  by  their  writer's  reading.  For  the  most  part,  too,  they 
were  considerably  longer  than  those  of  the  first  period,  and  far  less 
regular  and  orderly  in  composition. 

2  Especially, "  Of  the  Education  of  Children,"  "  Of  the  Affection  of  Fathers 
to  their  Children,"  "Of  Books,"  "Of  Cruelty,"  "Of  Presumption,"  and  "Of 
the  Resemblance  of  Children  to  their  Fathers."  With  the  exception  of  the 
first,  all  of  these  pieces  are  to  be  found  in  the  second  book  of  the  Essais. 
The  first  book  is  almost  entirely  made  up  of  impersonal  essays  of  Montaigne's 
earliest  period. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

In  1580  Montaigne  assembled  the  chapters  he  had  written  up  to 

that  time  —  ninety-four  in  all  —  and  published  them  at  Bordeaux  in 

two  books,  entitling  them  modestly  Essais.    The  name,  a 

First  edition  ^  .       ,r  •  1 

of  Mon-  new  one  in  European  hterature,  itselt  gave  warnmg  that 

taigne's  ^hg  collection  was  no  mere  book  of  conventional  lefotis, 

but,  in  however  tentative  a  way,  an  original  work.  But 
Montaigne  was  not  content  with  this  indirect  advertisement  of  his 
new-found  purpose.  Forgetful  of  nearly  the  whole  of  the  first  book, 
and  thinking  only  of  a  few  chapters  in  the  second,  he  insisted,  in 
his  prefatory  epistle  to  the  reader,  on  the  personal  character  of  his 
undertaking.    "  It  is,"  he  wrote,  "  myself  I  portray." 

Between  1580  and  1588  Montaigne  continued  to  busy  himself 
with  his  book,  and  in  the  latter  year  brought  out  a  new  edition,  in 
Montaigne's  which,  along  with  revised  versions  of  the  essays  written 
later  essays  before  1580,  he  included  thirteen  entirely  new  chapters.'' 
In  these  last  pieces  the  traits  which  had  been  slowly  coming  to 
characterize  his  writing  since  about  1574  became  still  more  marked. 
The  individual  essays  were  longer;  the  composition  was  if  anything 
more  rambling  and  discursive ;  and,  though  the  quotations  and  the 
"examples"  remained,  the  personal  experiences  and  reflections  of  the 
writer  formed  even  more  notably  the  center  of  the  work.  Everywhere, 
no  matter  what  the  subject  announced  at  the  beginning  of  the  chapter, 
Montaigne  talked  of  himself  —  of  his  memories  of  youth,  of  the  curi- 
ous and  interesting  things  which  had  happened  to  him  in  manhood, 
of  his  habits  of  body  and  mind,  of  his  whims  and  prejudices,  of  his 
ideas.  Like  the  good  moralist  he  was,  he  took  on  the  whole  more 
interest  in  what  happened  within  him  than  in  the  external  events  of 
his  life.  "  I  can  give  no  account  of  my  life  by  my  actions,"  he  wrote 
in  the  essay  "  Of  Vanity  "  ;  ''  fortune  has  placed  them  too  low  ;  I  must 
do  it  by  my  fancies."  But  it  was  not  his  intention  to  write  anything 
like  a  formal  autobiography  even  of  his  inner  life.  He  washed  rather 
to  find  in  his  own  experiences,  commonplace  as  many  of  them  were, 
light  on  the  general  moral  problems  which  were  always  the  primar)^ 
subject  of  his  reflections.   "  I  propose,"  he  said,  speaking  of  his  design 

3  These  formed  a  third  book.  Among  them  were  the  essays  on  which 
Montaigne's  fame  has  perhaps  most  largely  rested  :  "Of  Repentance,"  "  Upon 
Some  Verses  of  Virgil,"  "  Of  Coaches,"  "  Of  the  Inconvenience  of  Greatness," 
"  Of  Vanity,"  "  Of  Experience." 


XVI  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

to  picture  himself,  "  a  life  ordinary  and  without  luster ;  't  is  all  one ; 
all  moral  philosophy  may  as  well  be  applied  to  a  common  and  private 
life,  as  to  one  of  richer  composition  ;  every  man  carries  the  entire 
form  of  human  condition."  Such  was  the  philosophical  conception 
which  underlay  the  personal  essay  as  it  was  finally  developed  by 
Montaigne. 

The  £ss(7/s,  popular  from  the  first  in  France,  were  not  long  in 
making  their  way  across  the  Channel  into  England.  In  1595,  three 
The  Essais  years  after  Montaigne's  death,  a  copyright  was  issued  for 
in  England  an  English  translation,  possibly  the  one  which  appeared 
in  1603.  This  version  was  the  work  of  a  literary  schoolmaster  named 
John  Florio.  As  a  representation  of  the  original  it  was  far  from  faith- 
ful. It  was  written,  however,  in  picturesque  if  somewhat  obscure  Eng- 
lish, and  it  acquired  enough  popularity  in  the  early  seventeenth  century 
to  make  necessary  at  least  two  reprintings.  In  this  translation,  or  in 
the  original  French,  the  Essais  were  read  by  an  extensive  public,  which 
numbered  some  of  the  most  eminent  names  in  Elizabethan  letters. 
Under  these  circumstances  it  is  not  strange  that  the  literar)'  genre 
which  Montaigne  created  —  the  informal,  personal  essay  —  should 
have  become  naturalized  in  England. 

The  first  work  by  an  English  writer  to  bear  the  name  of  the  new 

form  appeared  in  1597.    Early  in  that  year  Francis  Bacon,  then  a 

,  rising  lawyer  in  the  service  of  the  queen,   published  a 

first  essays :   small    volume    entitled    Essayes.     Religious    Meditations. 

their  source  j^Jaces  of  pcrsivasioii  and  disswasion.  The  "  essayes " 
in  sixteenth-  .  ,  ,.       .  ,,      ,     ,,  ,,  ..^  ,,.  ,,  „  ,,^ 

century  col-     were  ten  m  number:      Or  Study,        Ut  Discourse,        Ut 

lections  of       Ceremonies  and  Respects,"  "  Of  Followers  and  Friends," 

"sentences"  „  ^^^  Suitors,"  "  Of  Expense,"  "  Of  Regiment  of  Health," 

"  Of  Honour  and  Reputation,"  "  Of  Faction,"  and  "  Of  Negotiating." 

In  reality  they  were  not  essays  in  the  Montaigne  sense  at  all,  but 

rather  short  collections  of  "  .sentences  "  or  aphorisms,  of  a  type  which 

had  been  familiar  throughout  P'urope  during  the  whole  of  the  sixteenth 

century.    Each  piece  consisted  of  a  series  of  brief,  pointed  maxims 

relating  to  the  general  subject  proposed  at  the  beginning ;  there  was 

little  attempt  at  order ;  and  the  individual  maxims  were  quite  devoid 

of  concrete  illustration  or  development  of  any  kind.    Fundamentally 

Bacon's  purpose  in  writing  the  book  was  not  to  discuss  questions  of 

morals  or  psychology  in  the  light  of  his  own  experience  in  life,  but  to 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

furnish  in  a  condensed,  memorable  form  practical  counsel  to  those 
ambitious  of  success  in  public  affairs.  Only  the  title,  it  would  seem, 
came  from  Montaigne,  and  that  was  doubtless  added  some  time  after 
the  book  itself  was  completed. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  essays  really  of  the  Montaigne 
type  made  their  appearance.  In  two  volumes,  published  in  1600  and 
Cornwallis's  1601,  Sir  William  Cornwallis,  a  friend  of  Ben  Jonson, 
Essays  brought  out  a  collection  of  fifty-two  pieces,  for  the  most 

part  short,  dealing  with  such  general  themes  as  resolution,  patience, 
love,  glory,  ambition,  discourse,  fame,  judgment,  sorrow,  vanity,  for- 
tune, and  the  like.  Like  Montaigne,  to  whom  in  several  passages  of 
warm  praise  he  acknowledged  his  debt,  Cornwallis  wrote  his  £ssajs 
largely  in  the  first  person,  made  abundant  illustrative  use  of  "  exam- 
ples," some  from  ancient  historians  and  poets,  some  from  his  own 
experience,  and  in  general  afforded  a  rather  full  revelation  of  his 
ideas,  tastes,  and  sentiments.  As  a  result,  in  part  no  doubt,  of 
this  strong  personal  note,  his  book  shared  during  the  first  third  of 
the  seventeenth  century  not  a  little  of  the  popularity  of  its  model. 

The  next  important  occurrence  in  the  history  of  the  new  genre 
in  England  was  the  appearance  in  1 6 1 2  of  an  enlarged  edition  of 
Bacon's  ^^^^  £ssays  of  Bacon.    From  ten  in  the  edition  of  1597  the 

Essays  number  of  chapters  had  now  become  thirty-eight.    The 

°  ^  ^^  first  essays  were  reprinted  without  fundamental  change ; 

here  and  there  new  maxims  w-ere  added,  and  some  of  the  old  ones 
given  a  slight  degree  of  development ;  but  on  the  whole  their  original 
character  remained  unaltered.  Of  the  newer  essays  a  few%  such  as 
"Of  Praise,"  "Of  Delay,"  and  "Of  Fortune,"  belonged  essentially  to 
the  old  type  of  "  sentences  "  ;  the  majorit)%  however,  exhibited  traits 
which  showed  that  Bacon's  conception  of  the  essay  as  a  form  and  his 
own  methods  of  writing  were  beginning  to  change.  Thus,  in  many 
of  the  pieces  there  appeared  a  more  marked  element  of  order  and  com- 
position ;  quotations  and  "  examples,"  usually  veiy  briefly  indicated, 
became  an  established  feature  of  the  exposition ;  in  a  word,  the  old 
ideal  of  a  collection  of  detached  maxims  began  to  give  place,  in 
Bacon's  mind,  to  that  of  a  more  continuous  and  living  discourse. 

This  evolution,  clearly  apparent  in  the  essays  first  published  in 
161 2,  became  still  more  pronounced  in  the  final  collection  which 
Bacon  put   forth   in    1625.     The   total   number  of  essays  was  now 


xviii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

increased  to  fifty-eight.  Of  tlie  old  ones  nearly  all  had  been  subjected 
to  some  revision,  those  of  1612  undergoing  the  greatest  change. 
g       ,  The  result  was  a  body  of  writing  which  differed  in  sev- 

Essays  eral  important  features  from  the  Essays  of   1597.    For 

of  1625  ^j^g  thing,  many  of  the  pieces  now  exhibited  something 

like  orderly  and  planned  composition ;  instead  of  merely  juxtaposed 
maxims,  there  was  now,  in  many  cases  (as  in  the  essay  "  Of  Friend- 
ship "),  a  clear  and  explicit  development  by  points.  The  average 
length  also  had  increased ;  many  of  the  new  essays  covered  from  six 
to  ten  pages.  Furthermore,  the  style  was  different  —  without  losing 
its  epigrammatic  flavor,  it  w«s  fuller,  richer  in  imagery,  more  circum- 
stantial. But  the  most  sigmficant  changes  were  the  increase  in  the 
number  of  historical  "  examples "  and  the  introduction  of  a  certain 
amount  of  personal  opinion  and  reminiscence.  Scarcely  an  essay  now 
but  had  its  illustrations  from  ancient  or  modern  history  ;  in  some 
pieces  (as,  for  example,  "  Of  Empire  ")  they  occupied  nearly  as  much 
space  as  the  general  reflections  which  they  served  to  clarify  and  illu- 
minate. Along  with  them  appeared  for  the  first  time  anecdotes  derived 
from  Bacon's  own  experience  in  life ;  as  when,  in  the  essay  "  Of 
Prophecies,"  he  reported  the  "  trivial  prophecy,  which  I  heard  when 
I  was  a  child,"  that  "  When  hempe  is  sponne,  England  's  done." 
More  and  more,  too,  he  formed  the  habit  of  stating  his  opinions  in 
the  first  person.' 

Such  were  some  of  the  differences  in  form  and  spirit  which  sepa- 
rated Bacon's  essays  of  1625  from  their  predecessors  of  1597.  Sev- 
Causes  of  eral  influences  probably  combined  to  produce  the  change, 
the  trans-        jj^  ^^^^  ^^st  place,  one  of  Bacon's  dreams  for  a  number  of 

formation  in  ,      ,  ,  ,  •  r  •  r  1 

Bacon's  years  past  had  been  the  construction  of  a  science  of  morals. 

Essays  i^  his  De  Augmetitis  Scientiarnm  (1623)  he  had  proposed 

as  a  means  to  this  end  the  writing  of  short  monographs  on  each 
of  the  passions,  virtues,  and  types  of  character.  He  never  carried 
out  his  design  in  full ;  but  it  is  not  unlikely  that  such  essays  as 
those  "  Of  Envy  "  and  "  Of  Simulation  and  Dissimulation,"  which 
were  among  the  most  finished  and  orderly  of  the  1625  group,  were 
composed  as  examples  of  the  monographs  he  had  in  view.  Another 
probable  influence  was  that  of  the  Epistles  of  Seneca  (first  centuiy 
A.D.),  one  of  the  most  widely  read  of  ancient  works  on  morals,  a  book 
constantly  quoted  by  Bacon.    In  a  canceled  preface  to  the  edition  of 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

1612  he  had  remarked  of  the  tide  of  his  own  book:  "The  word  is 
late,  but  the  thing  is  ancient.  For  Seneca's  Epistles  to  Lucilius,  if 
one  mark  them  well,  are  but  essays,  —  that  is,  dispersed  meditanons, 
— -though  conveyed  in  the  form  of  epistles."  Finally,  much  of  the 
impetus  to  the  change  in  his  methods  of  writing,  particularly  after 
1 61 2,  would  appear  to  have  come  from  Montaigne.  Montaigne's 
influence  it  was,  in  all  likelihood,  that  led  Bacon  to  cultivate  a  more 
picturesque  style,  to  develop  his  meager  aphorisms  into  connected 
discourses,  to  multiply  illustrations  of  all  kinds,  and  —  though  to  a 
very  limited  degree  —  to  speak  of  himself. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  this  influence,  the  type  of  essay  which  Bacon  devel- 
oped resembled  only  superficially  that  of  Montaigne.  In  form  it  was 
Differences  shorter,  more  compact  and  orderly,  and  far  less  personal ; 
between  the  jj^  content  it  had  a  practical  bias  which  for  the  most  part 
Bacon  and  Montaigne's  wanted.  From  first  to  last  Bacon's  purpose 
Montaigne  was  to  give,  from  his  own  extensive  knowledge  of  life 
and  history,  sound  advice  which  would  profit  those  whose  ambition 
it  was  to  rise  in  the  world  of  courts  and  council  chambers.  The 
title  which  he  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  1625  —  Essays,  or  Counsels 
Civil  and  Moral — exactly  expressed  his  aim.  His  book  was  to  be 
a  manual  of  morality  and  policy  for  aspiring  courtiers  and  statesmen. 
It  \z  true  that  in  the  second  and  third  editions  he  included  essays 
of  a  more  general  sort  —  meditations  on  truth,  death,  beauty,  friend- 
ship. But,  aside  from  the  fact  that  even  here  a  certain  amount  of 
worldly  wisdom  crept  in,  these  essays  were  far  less  typical  of  the 
work  as  a  whole  than  those  which  dealt  with  such  themes  as  the 
practice  of  dissimulation,  the  relative  advantage  of  marriage  and 
single  life  to  public  men,  the  means  of  rising  to  great  place,  the  best 
method  of  dealing  with  rebellious  subjects,  the  value  of  travel  in  the 
education  of  a  gentleman,  the  management  of  an  estate,  the  causes 
which  make  nations  great,  the  best  way  to  govern  colonies,  the 
economy  of  princely  buildings  and  gardens.  In  short,  though  almost 
certainly  indebted  to  Montaigne  for  a  number  of  characteristic  fea- 
tures,— ^for  the  most  part,  to  be  sure,  features  which  Montaigne  de- 
rived from  the  writers  of  kfons, —  Bacon's  Essays  really  introduced 
a  new  and  distinct  variety  of  the  genre. 

During  the  thirty-five  years  which  elapsed  between  the  completion 
of  Bacon's  work  and  the  Restoration,  several  other  writers  tried  their 


XX  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

hands  at  the  familiar  essay.  With  some  of  these  the  dominant  in- 
spiration was  Bacon,  with  others  Montaigne.  Thus  Owen  Felltham 
Decline  of  in  his  Resolves:  Divine^  Moral,  Political  (cir.  1620;  a 
the  essay  be-  second  part  in  1628)  adapted  Bacon's  later  method  and 

tween  Bacon  .  / 

and  the  style  to  the  exposition  of  ideas  quite  unlike  Bacon's  in 

Restoration  their  emphasis  on  the  religious  and  devotional  side  of 
life ;  while  Sir  Thomas  Browne  in  his  Religio  Medici  (written  about 
1635,  published  in  1642)  united  with  a  quaint  picturesqueness  of 
thought  and  expression  peculiar  to  himself,  not  a  little  of  Mon- 
taigne's characteristic  manner  of  personal  revelation.  Neither  of 
these  writers,  however,  nor  any  of  their  fellows,  had  any  appreciable 
influence  on  the  development  of  the  essay.  They  wrote,  moreover,  at 
a  time  when  the  essay  as  a  type  v^as  undergoing  a  marked  eclipse  of 
its  earlier  popularity.  No  doubt  in  part  this  eclipse  was  due  to  the 
superior  attractiveness  for  the  men  of  this  generation  of  the  "  char- 
acter "  ^  ;  no  doubt  in  part  also  it  reflected  the  absorption  of  the  ablest 
minds  of  the  period  in  the  political  and  religious  controversies  which 
preceded  and  accompanied  the  Civil  War.  Whatever  the  causes,  an 
eclipse  took  place,  and  it  was  not  until  the  more  peaceful  days  of  the 
Restoration  that  essay-writing  again  assumed  a  place  of  prominence 
among  the  activities  of  literary  Englishmen. 

In  this  revival,  as  in  the  original  introduction  of  the  form,  the  all- 
important  factor   was  the  influence  of   Montaigne.    After   suffering 
.       a  temporary  obscuration  during  the  period  of  the  Civil 
the  essay        War,   Montaigne's  popularity  became  greater  than  ever 

after  the  during  the  last  forty  years  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Restoration  '^  "'./,,.  ,  •      •      ,, 

—  the  infill-     J  he  causes  that  contributed  to  this  result  were  principally 

ence  of  Mon-  two  :  the  greatly  increased  interest  in  French  literature 
which  characterized  the  public  of  the  generation  after  the 
Restoration,  and  the  appeal  which  Montaigne  made  to  the  growing 
current  of  scepticism  and  free-thought.  In  1685  Charles  Cotton,  a 
poet  and  translator,  the  joint  author  with  Izaak  Walton  of  The  Coin- 
pleat  Angler,  published  a  new  version  of  the  Essais,  which  went 
through  three  editions  by  1700  and  completely  superseded  Florio's 
now  largely  obsolete  translation.  The  admirers  of  Montaigne  included 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  and  influential  persons  of  the  age. 
He  was  a  favorite  author  of  the  poet  Cowley ;  Dryden  ■  referred  to 

''  See  below,  p.  xxxi, 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

him,  in  the  preface  to  All  for  Love,  as  "  honest  Montaigne  "  ;  he  was 
one  of  the  writers  with  whom  Wycherley,  according  to  his  friend 
Pope,  used  to  "  read  himself  to  sleep "  ;  the  Marquis  of  Halifax 
confessed  that  the  Essais  was  "  the  book  in  the  world  I  am  best 
entertained  with."  In  this  atmosphere  of  enthusiasm  for  Mon- 
taigne the  form  which  he  had  created  began  once  more  to  attract 
English  writers. 

The  man  who  most  successfully  cultivated  the  familiar  essay  in  the 
period  after  the  Restoration  was  Abraham  Cowley.  Cowley  brought 
Abraham  ^^  ^'""^  writing  of  essays  not  only  a  mind  stored  with  the 
Cowley  best  classical  learning  of  the  day  and  a  sensibility  made 

(1618-1667)  delicate  by  long  practice  as  a  poet,  but  also  a  somewhat 
extensive  experience  in  active  affairs.  A  graduate  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  he  was  expelled  from  his  fellowship  in  1643  by  the 
Puritans,  and  in  1646  followed  the  exiled  queen  of  Charles  I  to 
France,  where  he  was  employed  on  various  Royalist  missions  until 
the  Restoration.  On  his  return  to  England  he  looked  confidently 
for  some  reward  of  his  services  from  Charles  II.  Like  many  another 
good  Royalist,  however,  he  was  disappointed  in  this  expectation,  and 
in  1663  he  withdrew  completely  from  public  life  and  finally  .settled 
on  a  small  estate  in  the  country  secured  to  him  by  his  patrons  the 
Earl  of  St.  Albans  and  the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  Here  he  lived 
until  his  death  in  1667.  During  the  last  four  or  five  years  of  his 
life  he  amused  himself  by  composing  at  intervals  a  number  of  short 
prose  essays,  each  concluding  with  one  or  more  verse  translations 
from  his  favorite  Roman  poets.  In  them  he  dwelt  on  the  superior 
advantages  of  liberty  over  dependence,  of  obscurity  over  greatness, 
of  agriculture  over  business,  and  of  a  quiet  life  of  reflection  in  the 
country  over  a  crowded  existence  in  city  or  court  —  all  in  a  familiar 
style,  enlivened  by  illustrations  from  his  own  experience  and  from  the 
accumulated  wisdom  of  ancient  moralists  and  poets.  The  eleven 
essays  thus  written  were  published  in  the  1668  folio  of  his  works 
under  the  title  of  Several  Discourses,  by  JJ'av  of  Essays,  in  Verse 
and  Prose. 

Of  all  the  English  essayists  of  the  seventeenth  centun,^  Cowley 
was  most  fully  indebted  to  Montaigne.  His  interests  in  life,  it  is  true, 
were  narrower ;  he  had  little  of  Montaigne's  spirit  of  free  inquiry 
and  criticism ;  he  was  moi^e  restrained  in  his  revelation  of  himself ; 


xxii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

his  language  was  less  vigorous  and  picturesque.  Nevertheless  Mon- 
taigne —  the  Montaigne  of  the  later,  more  personal  £ss(7is  —  was 
Cowley's  in-  ^^^  master.  He  it  was  who  taught  him,  in  large  part 
debtedness  to  at  least,  the  habit  of  self-analysis,  the  trick  of  weaving 
Montaigne  ^^^^^  j^j^  (-iis(;Qm-se  quotations  and  anecdotes  from  ancient 
writers,  the  secret  of  a  free,  informal  composition  and  of  a  familiar, 
colloquial  style. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  century  another  lover  of  Montaigne  and  of 
country  life  made  a  contribution  to  the  essay  almost  if  not  quite  as 
g.  wii-,j_  notable  as  that  of  Cowley.  This  was  Sir  William  Temple, 
Temple  perhaps  best  known  to  the  public  of  his  time  as  an  astute 

(1628-1699)  diplomat,  the  chief  promoter  of  that  Triple  Alliance  which 
united  Holland,  Denmark,  and  England  against  the  growing  power 
of  Louis  XIV.  In  intervals  of  official  business,  and  especially  during 
several  periods  of  enforced  retii'ement  from  public  life.  Temple  was 
accustomed  to  spend  his  time  on  his  country  estate  in  Surrey.  Here 
he  cultivated  his  garden,  cared  for  his  fruit  trees,  which  were  famous 
throughout  Europe,  and  diverted  himself  by  setting  down  his  thoughts 
on  various  subjects  in  the  form  of  loosely  organized  essays  modeled 
more  or  less  closely  on  those  of  Montaigne.  Sometimes  his  themes 
were  literary,  as  in  the  discourses  "  Upon  the  Ancient  and  Modern 
Learning"  and  "Of  Poetry."  More  frequently,  however,sthey  were 
suggested  by  his  experiences  and  reflections  as  a  country  gentleman 
upon  his  estate,  as  when  he  wrote  of  the  cure  of  the  gout,  of  garden- 
ing, of  health  and  long  life,  of  conversation.  These  essays,  composed 
at  different  times  between  the  late  seventies  and  Temple's  death  in 
1699,  were  published  in  three  volumes,  entitled  Miscellanea ,  in  16S0, 
1690,  and  1 701. 

If  Cowley  and  Temple  were  the  most  important  essayists  of  the 
last  forty  years  of  the  seventeenth  century,  they  were  by  no  means 
Other  essay-  the  only  ones.  George  Savile  (Marquis  of  Halifax),  John 
ists  contem-    Sheffield  (Duke  of  Buckingham),  Charles  Blount,  Joseph 

porary  with  .  . 

Cowley  and  Glanvill,  Jeremy  Collier  —  all  these  men  in  various  ways 
Temple  carried  on  the  traditions  of  Montaigne  or  of  Bacon.    As 

they  initiated,  however,  no  new  departures  in  essay-writing,  and  had 
little  influence  on  succeeding  essayists,  their  activity  was  of  small 
significance  in  the  evolution  of  the  type. 

With  their  passing,  the  first  stage  in  the  history  of  the  essay  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

England  came  to  a  close.  It  was  a  stage  characterized  not  so  much 
by  abundant  and  varied  production  or  widespread  popularity  as  by 
General  char-  experimentation  on  rather  narrow  lines.  The  great  models 
acter  of  the  Qf  ^i^q  jrenre,  the  writers  whose  methods  and  spirit  ani- 
essay  in  the  ,     ,  ,       r     i      .  ,  ^  • 

seventeenth     mated  the  work  ot  the  lesser  men,  were  Montaigne  and 

century  Bacon  —  the  one  presenting  an  ideal  of  frank  and  lively 

self-portraiture,  the  other  inspiring  to  a  concise  and  sententious,  if 
somewhat  impersonal,  handling  of  general  ideas.  The  influence  of 
both  men  coincided  on  at  least  two  points :  with  both  of  them,  and 
consequently  with  all  of  their  followers  during  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  essay  was  primarily  concerned  with  problems  of  moral- 
ity, in  the  large  sense  of  the  word ;  and  it  treated  these  problems 
for  the  most  part  in  the  light  of  classical  example  and  precept,  or  at 
least  in  the  spirit  of  classical  ethical  reflection.  "  An  Essay,"  wrote 
a  certain  Ralph  Johnson  in  1665,  "is  a  short  discourse  about  any 
virtue,  vice,  or  other  commonplace."  He  might  have  added  that 
the  virtues  and  vices  with  which  the  essayists  dealt  were  essentially 
individual  virtues  and  vices  —  it  was  morality  from  the  individual's 
point  of  view  and  in  the  individual's  interest,  and  not  from  the  point 
of  view  of  society,  that  formed  the  burden  of  their  reflections.  The 
multifarious  aspects  of  social  life  —  manners,  customs,  institutions  — 
interested  them  but  slightly  if  at  all.  Of  course  in  this  they  wrote  but 
as  children  of  their  age.  The  period  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  dominated  still  by  the  intellectual  tendencies  of  the 
Renaissance,  was  in  its  thinking  on  ethical  questions  an  age  of 
pronounced  individualism.  Little  wonder  then  that  Montaigne  and 
Bacon  and  their  disciples  fixed  their  attention  chiefly,  if  not  altogether, 
on  the  cultivation  and  expression  of  personality.  Equally  represent- 
ative of  the  culture  of  the  time  were  the  drafts  which  all  of  the 
essayists  made  upon  ancient  literature  for  aphorism  and  illustration. 
The  abundance  of  "  sentences  "  and  "  examples  "  derived  from  Greek 
and  especially  Latin  sources,  the  frequency  of  allusions  to  classical 
poets,  moralists,  and  historians,  the  general  disposition  to  find  in 
ancient  civilization  and  literature  guidance  for  modern  times  —  all 
these  things  clearly  reflected  the  humanism  out  of  which  the  essay 
originally  developed  and  which  still  survived  in  cultured  circles  to  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


xxiv  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

II.    THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAY  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY 

Shortly  after  1700  a  new  period  opened  in  the  history  of  the  Eng- 
lish familiar  essay.  During  the  preceding  hundred  years  the  essay  had 
Increased        been  essentially  a  minor  form  ;  it  had  been  neglected  by 

prominence      niost  of  the  prominent  writers,  and  cultivated  by  those 

and  changed  .  ,   . 

character        who  did  attempt  it  only  in  their  moments  of  leisure  from 

of  the  essay  more  serious  writing  ;  its  public  had  been  small  and  select, 
eighteenth  Now,  however,  it  took  its  place  among  the  three  or  four 
century  most  important  and  widely  popular  literary  types.    Scarcely 

one  of  the  great  writers  of  the  period,  from  Addison  and  Pope  to 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  but  concerned  himself  with  it  at  one 
time  or  another ;  and  its  readers  included  Englishmen  of  all  classes 
and  tastes.  Moreover,  along  with  this  rise  in  prominence,  there  took 
place  a  notable  change  in  its  aim  and  spirit.  Whereas  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  the  essay  had  been  almost  universally  conceived  as  an 
informal,  more  or  less  personal,  discourse  on  some  phase  of  individual 
morality,  it  now  became  oriented  definitely  toward  the  analysis  and 
criticism  of  contemporary  social  life.  Stylistic  changes,  too,  accom- 
panied these  modifications  in  substance  ;  new  methods  of  composition, 
new  devices  of  exposition  appeared  alongside  the  old  ;  with  the  result 
that  the  essay  of  the  eighteenth  century  constituted  in  many  respects 
an  entirely  new  literary  type. 

This  type  was  the  joint  creation  of  two  men,  Richard  Steele  (1672- 
1729)  and  Joseph  Addison  (1672-17 19),  and  as  such  it  bore  in 
unmistakable  manner  the  impress  of  their  personalities.  However, 
as  neither  Steele  nor  Addison  could  escape  the  influence  of  their 
environment,  the  particular  form  and  direction  which  they  gave  to 
the  essay  were  in  large  measure  determined  by  external  conditions. 

Among  these  conditions  none  was  of  greater  moment  in  shaping 
the  essay  in  the  eighteenth  century  than  the  development  of  literary 
Influences  on  periodicals.  During  the  years  immediately  following  the 
the  new  Revolution  of    1688,   when,   under  the  stimulus   of  an 

rfsTof  ^  aroused  interest  in  politics  and  a  relaxed  censorship, 
literary  newspapers   in  the  strict   sense  of  the  word  began  to 

periodicals  appear  in  considerable  numbers,  certain  persons  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  publishing  journals  that  should  deal,  not  primarily 
with  news,  but  with  some  of  the  numerous  miscellaneous  matters  of 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

fashions,  literature,  and  morals  that  engaged  the  attention  of  the 
public.  One  of  these  persons,  a  bookseller  named  John  Dunton, 
TheAthe-  began  in  1691  to  print  a  sheet  which  he  called  at  first 
nian  Mercury  The  Athenian  Gazette  and  later  The  Athenian  Mercury. 
(1691-1697)  j^g  ^j^j  ^j-jg  j^-,gj-i  ^y^x.  he  associated  with  him  in  writing 
it  aimed  to  furnish  instruction  mingled  with  entertainment.  Their 
characteristic  device  was  questions  and  answers ;  they  invited  (jueries 
on  all  manner  of  subjects  from  their  readers  and  undertook  to  reply 
to  them  in  their  paper.  'I'hus,  in  one  number  they  discussed  the 
question  "whether  the  torments  of  the  damned  are  visible  to  the 
saints  in  heaven,"  and  vice  versa.  Ikit  not  all  their  space  was  de- 
voted to  merely  curious  matters  like  this.  Even  more  frequently  they 
were  called  upon  to  supply  useful  information  regarding  history  or 
natural  science,  to  pronounce  upon  questions  of  taste,  or  to  resolve 
nice  problems  of  conduct  and  manners.  Dunton  continued  to  publish 
the  Athenian  Mercury  for  six  years.  It  was  the  first  journal  of  a 
miscellaneous  character,  not  primarily  concerned  with  politics,  that 
England  had  seen. 

It  was  followed,  after  an  interval,  by  others.  Of  these  by  far  the 
most  important  and  successful  was  A  W^eekly  Reviezv  of  the  Affairs 
Defoe's  of  Fratice,  published  between  1704  and  17 13  by  Daniel 

Review  Defoe.   Defoe's  primary  object  in  issuing  the  Review  was 

(1704-1713)  ^Q  provide  himself  with  a  medium  through  which  he  could 
express  his  opinions  on  public  affairs,  particularly  on  the  struggle  then 
going  on  with  France,  and  on  the  progress  of  English  trade.  Each 
number,  therefore,  contained  an  essay  from  his  pen  on  one  or  the 
other  of  these  subjects.  But  he  was  too  shrewd  a  man  of  business, 
and  too  well  acquainted  with  the  tastes  of  his  readers,  to  confine 
himself  to  the  serious  matters  of  politics.  "  When  I  first  found  the 
design  of  this  paper,"  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  prefaces,  "\  .  .  I  con- 
sidered it  would  be  a  thing  very  historical,  very  long,  and  though  it 
could  be  much  better  performed  than  ever  I  was  like  to  do  it,  this 
age  had  such  a  natural  aversion  to  a  solemn  and  tedious  affair  tliat, 
however  profitable,  it  would  never  be  diverting,  and  the  world  would 
never  read  it.  To  get  over  this  difficulty  that  secret  hand,  I  make  no 
doubt,  that  directed  this  birth  into  the  world  dictated  to  make  some 
sort  of  entertainment  or  amusement  at  the  end  of  each  paper,  upon 
the  immediate  subject  then  on  the  tongues  of  the  Town,  which  inno- 
cent diversion  would  hand  on  the  more  weighty  and  serious  part  of 


XXVI  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

the  design  into  the  heads  and  thoughts  of  those  to  whom  it  might  be 
useful."  This  "  entertaining  part,"  which  Defoe  hoped  would  make 
readers  for  his  more  serious  reflections,  he  called  "  Mercure  Scandale : 
or.  Advice  from  the  Scandalous  Club."  It  consisted  of  short  discourses 
on  questions  of  fashions,  manners,  morals,  taste,  and  the  like,  purport- 
ing to  be  written  by  the  members  of  the  "  Scandalous  Club,"  usually  in 
answer  to  inquiries  sent  to  them  from  readers.  For  about  a  year  it 
was  published  regularly  in  the  Review ;  then,  on  account  of  a  press 
of  other  matter,  it  was  taken  out  and  issued  separately,  under  the 
title  of  TJie  Litf/e  Review ;  presently  it  was  discontinued  altogether. 

These  journals  were  important  in  that  they  established  in  England 
the  tradition  of  the  literary  or  miscellaneous  periodical.  Of  direct  in- 
fluence upon  the  essay,  however,  they  exerted  but  little.  Neither  the 
Athenian  Mercury  nor  Defoe's  Review  had  much  to  do  with  deter- 
mining the  character  of  this  genre  as  it  was  written  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  That  role  was  reserved  for  two  papers  which  followed  shortly 
upon  them,  appealed  to  the  same  general  interests,  and  profited  by 
the  taste  which  they  had  helped  to  create. 

On  April  12,  1709,  while  the  Review  was  still  coming  out,  there 
appeared  the  first  number  of  a  new  journal.  The  Tatler.  In  external 
The  Tatler  form  it  consisted  of  a  single  folio  sheet  printed  on  both 
(1709-1711)  sides  ;  and  a  prospectus  at  the  beginning  announced  that 
it  would  be  published  on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays,  "  for 
the  convenience  of  the  post."  At  first  the  name  of  the  editor  was  not 
known.  But  it  was  presently  whispered  about  that  he  was  Richard 
Steele,  a  writer  and  politician  of  strong  Whig  sympathies,  who  at  the 
Time  was  editor  of  the  official  government  newspaper,  The  London 
Gazette.  As  Gazetteer,  Steele  had  access  to  the  latest  news,  especially 
of  foreign  affairs  —  to  a  great  deal,  moreover,  that  he  could  not  use 
in  the  Gazette  itself.  This  circumstance,  combined  with  the  recent 
success  of  Defoe's  "  Scandalous  Club,"  had  given  him  the  idea  of 
publishing  a  journal  of  his  own  that  should  be  at  once  a  newspaper 
and  a  collection  of  essays  on  miscellaneous  subjects.  For  various 
reasons  he  did  not  wish  his  own  name  to  appear  as  editor.  He  there- 
fore announced  the  Tatler  as  the  work  of  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq., 
a  benevolent  astrologer  in  whose  name  Swift  had  diverted  the  town 
in  a  humorous  pamphlet  controver.sy  of  the  previous  year. 

The  prospectus  in  the  first  number  announced  that  the  Tatler  was 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

to  consist  of  two  parts  —  accounts  of  news  and  essays.  For  a  time 
this  program  was  carried  out.  Until  October,  1709,  the  numbers 
of  the  paper  regularly  contained,  under  the  heading  of  St.  James 
Coffee-house,  a  paragraph  of  foreign  news  condensed  from  the  latest 
dispatches  from  the  Continent.  After  No.  80  (October  13,  1709), 
however,  this  disappeared  as  a  regular  feature  and  reappeared  only 
occasionally  thereafter.  The  essays  also  appeared  from  the  first.  In 
the  beginning  they  were  as  a  rule  short,  and  each  number  contained 
several.  Thus  in  No.  5  there  was  a  discourse  on  love,  a  notice  of  a 
new  book,  a  story  of  two  brave  English  soldiers,  besides  several  para- 
graphs of  news.  As  time  went  on,  the  length  of  the  essays  was  in- 
creased, and  tlie  number  ultimately  reduced  to  one  to  each  issue ; 
when  the  Tatlcr  was  discontinued,  this  had  become  the  usual  practice. 

Steele  began  his  periodical  entirely  by  himself  ;  the  plan  was  his,  and 
he  wrote  the  first  few  numbers  without  any  assistance.  With  No.  18, 
however,  he  began  to  receive  help  from  an  old  school  friend  and  fellow 
Whig,  Joseph  Addison,  then  under-secretary  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland.  Addison  wrote  for  the  Tatlcr  off  and  on  until  its  with- 
drawal, contributing  in  all  some  forty-one  papers  and  parts  of  thirty- 
four  others,  a  little  over  a  third  of  the  total  number.  At  no  time  did 
he  become  a  dominant  influence  in  the  journal. 

The  Tatlcr  continued  to  appear  for  twenty-one  months.  Finally, 
on  the  2d  of  January,  17 11,  it  was  suddenly  withdrawn,  greatly  to 
the  regret  of  the  large  public  which  had  come  to  welcome  its  half- 
humorous,  half-satirical  comment  on  the  life  of  the  day.  "  Ever}'one," 
wrote  the  poet  Gay,  "  wanted  so  agreeable  an  amusement,  and  the 
coffee-houses  began  to  be  sensible  that  the  Esquire's  Lucubrations 
alone  had  brought  them  more  customers  than  all  other  newspapers 
put  together."  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  a  new  periodical 
took  its  place. 

On  March  i ,  1 7  1 1 ,  two  months  after  the  cessation  of  the  Tatlcr, 
appeared  the  first  number  of  the  Spectator.  The  new  paper  resembled 
y^g  the  Tatlcr  in  external  form,  but,  unlike  the  Tatlcr,  it  was 

Spectator  published  daily,  and  at  no  time  contained  news.  A  single 
(1711-1712)  essay,  headed  by  a  Latin  or  Greek  motto,  and  followed 
by  a  group  of  advertisements,  made  up  the  contents  of  each  number. 
The  editor  was  announced  to  be  a  silent  but  very  observing  man 
named  Mr.  Spectator,  who  was  assisted  in  his  conduct  of  the  paper 


xxviii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

by  a  club  composed  of  an  old  country  knight,  a  lawyer,  a  merchant, 
a  soldier,  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a  clergyman.  The  general  editorial 
charge  of  the  new  periodical  was  in  the  hands  of  Steele.  Addison 
was  a  very  frequent  contributor,  and  indeed  wrote  more  essays  than 
his  friend ;  his  assistance  extended  also  to  the  general  design  of  the 
work.  A  few  other  persons,  such  as  Addison's  cousin  Eustace  Budgell, 
John  Hughes,  Henry  Grove,  and  Henry  Martin,  contributed  papers 
occasionally. 

The  audience  which  the  Spectator  was  designed  to  reach  was  a 
diversified  one.  It  included  persons  of  quality,  students  and  profes- 
sional men,  merchants  of  the  City,  and,  above  all,  women.  "  I  take 
it  for  a  particular  happiness,"  wrote  Steele  in  No.  4,  "  that  I  have 
always  had  an  easy  and  familiar  admittance  to  the  fair  sex  .  .  .  As 
these  compose  half  the  world,  and  are,  by  the  just  complaisance  and 
gallantry  of  our  nation,  the  more  powerful  part  of  our  people,  I  shall 
dedicate  a  considerable  share  of  these  my  speculations  to  their  serv- 
ice, and  shall  lead  the  young  through  all  the  becoming  duties  of 
virginity,  marriage,  and  widowhood  ...  In  a  word,  I  shall  take  it 
for  the  greatest  glory  of  my  work  if  among  reasonable  women  this 
paper  may  furnish  tea-table  talk." 

With  this  variety  of  appeal,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  new  journal 
became  popular.  Gay  wrote  in  May,  i  7 1 1,  two  months  after  it  began 
to  appear :  "  the  Spectator  ...  is  in  every  one's  hand,  and  a  constant 
topic  of  our  morning  conversation  at  tea-tables  and  coffee-houses."-^ 
In  August,  1 7  12,  when  this  popularity  was  at  its  height,  the  govern- 
ment imposed  on  all  periodicals  a  stamp  tax  of  a  halfpenny  for  each 
half-sheet  and  a  shilling  a  week  for  each  advertisement.  As  a  con- 
sequence, a  great  many  papers  went  under.  For  a  time  the  Spectator 
continued  to  appear,  though,  as  its  price  was  doubled,  many  of  its 
subscribers  fell  off.  But  the  loss  of  the  subscribers  was  a  less  serious 
blow  to  the  paper  than  the  loss  of  a  great  number  of  its  advertisers 
as  a  result  of  the  shilling  tax.  From  this  blow  it  never  recovered,  and 
was  discontinued,  with  the  555th  number,  on  December  6,  17 12. 

It  was  in  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator^  and  under  the  conditions 
imposed  by  the  nature  of  these  papers,  that  the  new  essay  of  the 
eighteenth  century  had  its  birth.     As  was  only  natural,  many  of  its 

1 1'^or  details  concerning  the  circulation  of  the  Spectator,  see  below,  pp.  419— 
420. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

distinguishing  features  betrayed  clearly   the  character  of  its  origin. 

Thus,  the  limits  of  the  single  sheet  on  which  the  journals  were  printed 

Effect  of  restricted  the  essays  to  a  relatively  brief  compass ;   the 

periodical        efforts  of  the  writers  to  conceal  their  authorship  under  the 

publication  .  .  '^ 

on  the  new      names  of  imaginary  editors  gave  to  their  self-revelations 

essay  ^^i  indirect  and  somewhat  dramatic  tone ;   and   the  fact 

of  periodical  publication  resulted  in  the  adoption  of  many  devices 
of  a  purely  occasional  and  journalistic  nature,  such  as  letters  from 
correspondents,  answers  to  criticisms,  references  to  events  of  the 
day,  and  the  like.  Nor  was  the  influence  of  the  conditions  under 
which  the  new  essay  was  produced  confined  to  these  more  or  less 
external  features.  Written  not  as  the  seventeenth-century  essay  had 
been  for  a  limited  circle  of  cultured  individuals,  but  for  a  large  and 
growing  periodical-reading  public  with  diversified  interests  and  tastes, 
it  inevitably  took  on  a  popular  tone  entirely  absent  from  the  older 
essay.  Finally,  as  an  indirect  result  of  its  connection  with  the  peri- 
odicals, the  new  essay  came  strongly  under  the  influence  of  the  social 
movement  of  the  time. 

Both  Steele  and  Addison,  in  numerous  passages  in  the  Tatler  and 
the  Spectator,  laid  great  stress  on  the  didactic  character  of  their 
The  influ-        undertaking.    Steele,  in  particular,  made  no  secret  of  his 

ence  of  the  reformatory  zeal.  "  I  own  myself  of  the  Society  for 
social  move-  .  -^  .  •' 

ment  on  the     Reformation  of   Manners,"  he   wrote  in   Tatler  No.   3. 

new  essay  "  \\'e  have  lower  instruments  than  those  of  the  family  of 
Bickerstaff  for  punishing  great  crimes  and  exposing  the  abandoned. 
Therefore,  as  I  design  to  have  notices  from  all  public  assemblies,  I 
shall  take  upon  me  only  indecorums,  improprieties,  and  negligencies, 
in  such  as  should  give  us  better  examples.  After  this  declaration, 
if  a  fine  lady  thinks  fit  to  giggle  at  church,  or  a  great  beau  to 
come  in  drunk  to  a  play,  either  shall  be  sure  to  hear  of  it  in 
my  ensuing  paper ;  for  merely  as  a  well-bred  man  I  cannot  bear 
these  enormities."  And  again,  with  perhaps  a  growing  seriousness, 
he  declared  in  No.  39  :  "I  am  called  forth  by  the  immense  love  I 
bear  to  my  fellow  creatures,  and  the  warm  inclination  I  feel  within 
me,  to  stem,  as  far  as  I  can,  the  prevailing  torrent  of  vice  and  igno- 
rance." Addison  was  scarcely  less  explicit,  though  he  perhaps 
emphasized  more  than  Steele  had  done  his  intention  to  make  his 
teaching    agreeable.     "  I    shall    endeavor,"   he    wrote    in    a    famous 


XXX  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

passage  in  Spectator  No.  lo,  "to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to 
temper  wit  with  morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways 
find  their  account  in  the  speculation  of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that 
their  virtue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  transient,  intermitting 
starts  of  thoughts,  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their  memories  from 
day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered  them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of 
vice  and  folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  ...  I  shall  be  ambitious 
to  have  it  said  of  me  that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of  closets 
and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies, 
at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee-houses." 

In  thus  adopting  as  the  aim  of  their  journals  moral  and  social 
reformation,  Steele  and  Addison  were  simply  placing  themselves  in 
line  with  one  of  the  most  powerful  tendencies  of  early  eighteenth- 
century  England  —  the  reaction  against  the  moral  license  of  Resto- 
ration society  which  came  with  the  rise  into  prominence  and  affluence 
of  the  middle  classes.  This  was  not,  however,  the  only  way  in  which 
the  social  movement  affected  the  periodicals,  and  through  them  the 
new  essay.  By  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  coffee- 
house had  come  to  be  one  of  the  most  influential  of  London  institu- 
tions, the  center  of  innumerable  discussions  on  morals,  literature, 
politics,  society,  in  which  members  of  the  reading  public  sharpened 
their  wits,  learned  to  have  opinions  of  their  own  on  all  manner  of 
subjects,  and  acquired  a  taste  for  a  simple,  colloquial,  unbookish  style 
of  speech.  The  periodicals  became  in  a  very  real  sense  the  organs 
of  this  coffee-house  world.  Their  writers  were  members  of  it ;  they 
reported  its  conversation,  described  and  sometimes  satirized  its 
characters,  attempted  to  reform  its  evil  tendencies,  and  in  general 
reflected  its  spirit  and  tone.  In  short,  more  than  any  other  literary 
form  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  periodical  essay  was  an  outgrowth 
of  the  London  coffee-houses. 

A  third  group  of  influences  affecting  the  new  essay  came  from  the 

field  of  literature.   Confronted  by  the  problem  of  promoting  moral  and 

social  reform  and  at  the  same  time  holding  the  interest  of 
Literary  in-  " 

fluences  on      a  large  and  heterogeneous  public,  the  periodical  writers 

the  period-  found  the  somewhat  narrow  formula  of  the  seventeenth- 
ical  essay  .       ,  ,     •  i        ,tt-  ^  i 

century  essay  madequate  to  their  needs.  Without  aban- 
doning it  entirely  (Steele,  indeed,  owed  not  a  little  to  Cowley,  and  both 
Bacon  and  Montaigne  continued  to  have  an  influence),  they  looked 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

about  for  new  methods  and  forms  that  would  give  to  their  writing  the 
variety  and  flexibility  which  both  their  public  and  their  material  required. 
Of  the  literary  forms  with  which  they  thus  attempted  to  vivify  the 
essay  one  of  the  most  influential  was  the  "  character."  The  fashion 
The  "char-  of  writing  "  characters,"  or  descriptive  sketches  of  typical 
acter"  personages,  had  become  established  in   England  during 

the  early  years  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  event  which  initi- 
ated the  vogue  was  the  publication  in  1592  by  Isaac  Casaubon,  a 
celebrated  French  classical  scholar,  of  a  Latin  translation  of  the 
Characters  of  Theophrastus.  Tyrtamus  of  Lesbos,  commonly  called 
Theophrastus,  was  a  Greek  of  the  fourth  and  third  centuries  e.c.  (cir. 
372-cir.  288),  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  disciples  of  Aristotle. 
The  work  by  which  he  most  affected  modern  literature  consisted  of  a 
series  of  twenty-eight  descriptions  of  the  various  qualities  character- 
istic of  human  beings,  such  as  garrulity,  rusticity,  newsmongering, 
impudence,  superstition,  tediousness,  pride,  timidity.  In  all  these 
descriptions  he  followed  a  stereotyped  method,  first  defining  the 
quality  in  general  terms,  then  illustrating  this  definition  by  an  enu- 
meration of  typical  actions.  Under  the  influence  of  Casaubon 's 
translation  the  genre  thus  conceived  became  widely  popular  in  seven- 
teenth-century England.  The  first  writer  to  cultivate  it  was  Bishop 
Joseph  Hall,  who  published  in  1608  Characters  of  Vices  and  Vii'fi/es, 
a  collection  of  descriptions  of  topical  personages,  each  embodying 
some  moral  quality,  good  or  bad,  such  as  the  wise  man,  the  humble 
man,  the  truly  noble,  the  busybody,  the  malcontent,  the  vainglori- 
ous. Other  collections  followed.  In  16 14  appeared  the  "  characters" 
ascribed  to  Sir  Thomas  Overbuiy,  the  subjects  of  which  were  some- 
what more  concrete  than  those  of  Hall,  and  included,  in  addition  to 
moral  qualities,  social  and  national  types.  Another  character-book  of 
the  same  period  was  John  Earle's  Microcosmographie,  or  a  Piece  of  the 
World  Discovered  in  Essays  and  Characters,  first  issued  in  1628  and 
frequently  republished  during  the  next  fifty  years.  Earle's  subjects 
were  similar  for  the  most  part  to  those  of  the  Overbury  collection  : 
he  wrote  of  the  "  young  raw  preacher,"  of  the  "  grave  divine,"  of  the 
"  mere  young  gentleman  of  the  university,"  of  the  "  mere  gull  cit- 
izen," of  the  "  plain  country  fellow."  Numerous  other  collections  of 
the  same  type  made  their  appearance  during  the  second  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 


xxxii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

Two  features  distinguished  all  of  these  attempts  at  character- 
writing  :  first,  the  human  types  tlicy  represented,  whether  ethical, 
social,  or  national,  were  but  slightly  individualized ;  and  second,  as 
compositions  they  formed  an  independent  literary  species,  allied  to 
the  essay  but  seldom  combined  with  it.  It  remained  for  a  French 
writer  of  the  latter  part  of  the  century  at  once  to  individualize  the 
"character"  and  to  combine  it  organically  with  the  essay.  In  1688, 
at  the  end  of  a  new  translation  of  Theophrastus,  Jean  La  Bruyere 
(i 645-1 696)  published  a  series  of  short  chapters  called  collectively  Les 
Caraderes,  on  les  Mceurs  de  ce  Sieder  Each  of  these  chapters  treated 
some  moral  question  or  some  phase  of  the  social  life  of  the  time  — 
personal  merit,  women,  society  and  conversation,  the  city,  the  court, 
the  nobility,  judgments,  fashion,  man  in  general.  In  the  first  edition 
the  essay  element  predominated  :  the  chapters  were  very  largely  made 
up  of  general  reflections,  stated  succinctly  and  without  transitional 
phrases,  iii  the  form  of  maxims.  Here  and  there,  however,  between 
two  groups  of  maxims,  appeared  brief  "  characters  "  or  portraits  of 
representative  individuals,  each  designated  by  a  name  of  Latin  or 
Greek  origin,  as,  for  example,  Cle'ante,  Sosie,  Cresus,  Narcisse.  In 
later  editions,  while  the  reflections  remained,  the  portraits  greatly 
increased  in  number.  They  took  various  forms  —  descriptions,  anec- 
dotes, dialogues,  typical  narratives.  Whatever  the  form,  they  had  one 
feature  in  common  —  they  were  all  thoroughly  individualized.  Not 
merely  by  the  use  of  names,  but  by  the  inclusion  of  concrete  detail 
of  all  kinds.  La  Bruyere  succeeded  in  giving  the  impression  that  his 
portraits,  while  representative  of  a  class,  were  none  the  less  portraits 
of  real  persons. 

To  the  writers  of  the  Tatler  and  the  Spedator,  intent  on  a  concrete 
presentation  of  the  life  around  them,  the  generalized  "  characters  "  of 
the  type  of  Overbury's  and  Earle's  made  less  of  an  appeal  than  the 
individualized  character-essays  of  La  Bruyere.  Steele,  in  particular, 
found  Les  Caraderes  a  congenial  work,  and  made  no  secret  of  his 
intention  to  imitate  it.' 

The  "  character,"  though  perhaps  the  most  influential,  was  not  the 
only  literary  form  from  which  the  periodical  writers  took  suggestions 
for  the  new  essay.    They  learned  much  from  the  writings  of  earlier 

2  An  English  translation  appeared  in  1699. 

3  See  Tatler  No.  9. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

and  contemporary  literary  critics,  notably  the   Englishman  Dn^den 

and   the  Frenchman  Saint-Iilvremond.     They  adapted   to  their  uses 

Other  liter-     the  popular  genre  of  the  epistle  as  it  had  been  developed 

ary  forms  j^  England  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  by 
contributory  ^  ■'      ■' 

to  the  new       such  writers  as  James  Howell  and  Robert  Loveday  and 

essay  later  applied  to  purposes  of  journalism  by  the  editors  of 

the  Athenian  Aferciiry.    They  showed  themselves  close  students  of 

the  literature  of  visions  and  allegories,   ancient  and  modern,  from 

Plato  to  Edmund   Spenser.     They  took  hints  of  subject  and   style 

from  the  collections  of  oriental  stories  that  were  beginning,  in  the 

early  eighteenth  century,  to  penetrate  into  western  Europe.     They 

borrowed  not  a  little  in  the  way  of  method  from  the  contemporaty 

French  novelists. 

Such  were  the  varied  influences  under  which  Steele  and  Addison 
created  and  brought  to  perfection  the  periodical  essay.  Steele  led  the 
The  roles  of  way  :  his  was  the  design  of  the  Tatlcr  and,  in  part  at 
Steele  and  least,  of  the  Spectator ;  his  were  the  first  rough  sketches 
the  develop-  ^'^  nearly  all  the  types  of  papers  which  appeared  in  the 
ment  of  the  two  journals.  But  though  more  original  than  his  associ- 
r^turv*  '  ^^^  ^'^^  possessed  of  greater  moral  fen^or  and  power  of 
essay  touching  the  feelings  of  his  readers,  he  was  less  system- 

atic, less  scholarly,  less  subtly  humorous ;  and  it  remained  for  Addi- 
son to  exhibit  the  full  possibilities  of  many  lines  of  thought  and 
many  artistic  devices  which  he  had  merely  suggested.  However,  the 
collaboration  between  the  two  men  was  ever  close,  and  the  essays 
which  they  wrote  possessed  numerous  characteristics  in  common. 

To  a  reader  familiar  with  Montaigne,  Bacon,  or  Cowley,  the  essays 

of  Addison  and   Steele,  while  presenting  some   traditional   features, 

must  have  seemed  on  the  whole  a  new  species.    They 

Distinguish-  *  ■' 

ing  features  were  as  a  rule  shorter  than  the  essays  of  the  seventeenth 
of  the  new  century  and,  what  was  perhaps  even  more  striking,  all 
of  uniform  or  nearly  uniform  length.  In  character  the}' 
were  more  occasional,  more  satirical,  more  social  and  citified,  and 
a  great  deal  less  bookish ;  all  in  all,  too,  as  compared  with  the 
w'ork  of  Montaigne  and  Cowley,  they  were  less  intimately  and 
directly  personal.  But,  most  of  all,  they  exhibited  a  variety 
of  subject  and  method  quite  unapproached  by  the  essayists  of  the 
preceding  century. 


xxxiv  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  themes  treated  in  the  Tatler  and  Spectator  essays  belonged  in 
general  to  two  main  classes,  both  of  which  were  in  a  measure  dictated 
by  the  program  of  social  reform  for  which  the  periodicals 
stood.  Addison  in  Spectator  435  clearly  indicated  this  divi- 
sion. "  Most  of  the  papers  I  give  the  public,"  he  said,  "  are  written 
on  subjects  that  never  vary,  but  are  forever  fixed  and  immutable.  Of 
this  kind  are  all  my  more  serious  essays  and  discourses ;  but  there  is 
another  sort  of  speculations,  which  I  consider  as  occasional  papers, 
that  take  their  rise  from  the  folly,  extravagance,  and  caprice  of  the 
present  age."  Among  the  "  fixed  and  immutable  "  subjects  naturally 
appeared  many  of  the  themes  of  the  older  essayists :  modesty,  the 
government  of  the  passions,  fame,  love,  immortality,  the  vanity  of 
ambition,  conversation,  friendship,  honor,  education,  marriage,  cheer- 
fulness, hypocrisy,  the  enjoyments  of  a  country  life,  faith.  To  this 
group  belonged  also  such  general  literary  subjects  as  humor,  wit, 
taste,  and  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination.  More  distinctive  of  the 
spirit  and  aims  of  the  new  essay  were  the  themes  of  the  second  class 
—  tho.se  which  inspired  the  "occasional  papers."  They  included  the 
whole  range  of  contemporary  social  life,  though,  as  was  only  natural, 
the  emphasis  fell  on  interests  and  customs  especially  characteristic  of 
London.  The  absurdities  of  the  Italian  opera,  the  practice  of  the  duel, 
the  habit  of  taking  snuff,  the  puppet-show,  the  lottery,  the  reading  of 
newspapers,  fashionable  slang,  the  Midnight  Masquerade,  coffee- 
houses, "  party -patches,"  the  belief  in  witchcraft,  the  hoop-petticoat, 
the  effect  of  the  war  on  the  English  language,  the  street-cries  of 
London,  pin-money,  the  occupations  of  a  young  lady  of  fashion,  the 
Mohocks  —  all  these  furnished  material  for  kindly  satirical  essays 
which,  though  somewhat  less  numerous  than  the  speculations  on 
abstract  subjects,  were  perhaps  more  popular  with  contemporary 
readers.  Both  groups  of  papers  were  pervaded  by  a  common  spirit  — ■ 
a  spirit  earnest  and  didactic,  to  be  sure,  and  not  particularly  personal, 
but  always  urbane,  and  lightened  when  the  subject  demanded  by 
touches  of  quiet  humor. 

The  same  variety  which  characterized  the  subject  matter  of  the 
new  essay  appeared  also  in  its  form.  l"hc  essay  of  the  seventeenth 
century  had  been  a  relatively  simple  compound  of  three  elements  — 
general  reflections,  "  examples  "  and  "  sentences  "  from  books,  and 
personal  observations  or  reminiscences.    To  these  familiar  elements 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

the  essayists  who  wrote  for  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator-  added 
several  others  —  tales  of  real  life,  elaborate  classical  and  oriental 
Types  of  allegories,  letters  and  diaries  of  correspondents,  typical 
essays  moral   and  social  "  characters,"  reports  of  the  conver- 

sation of  London  coffee-houses  and  tea-tables.  The  result  was  that, 
instead  of  papers  constructed  more  or  less  on  the  same  pattern,  they 
were  able  to  give  their  readers  a  considerable  number  of  distinct 
types  of  essays. 

They  were  particularly  fond  of  what  Addison  called  "  papers  of 
morality,"  that  is  to  say,  discourses  devoted  primarily  to  the  exposition 
Moralizing  of  some  general  ethical  principle  or  quality,  such  as  mod- 
essays  esty,  cheerfulness,  hypocrisy,  affectation.  In  writing  them 
they  followed  no  single  method ;  sometimes  they  developed  their 
central  theme  in  a  formal,  orderly  way,  with  illustrations  from  the 
classics,  the  Scriptures,  or  the  more  serious  modern  authors ;  some- 
times they  contented  themselves  with  simply  suggesting,  in  para- 
graphs devoid  of  concrete  detail,  a  few  of  its  significant  phases.  Their 
models,  so  far  as  they  were  dependent  upon  any,  were  to  be  found 
in  part  among  the  writings  of  the  earlier  essayists  —  Bacon  in  partic- 
ular furnished  them  many  hints  of  method  —  and  in  part  among  the 
sermons  of  the  great  English  divines  of  the  preceding  generation. 

Many  of  the  features  of  the  ^'  papers  of  morality "  characterized 
also  another  type  of  essays  much  cultivated  in  the  periodicals  — 
Critical  essays  in  literaiy  criticism.    These  were  of  two  classes, 

essays  according  as   the  starting  point  was  a  general  literary 

idea  or  a  particular  work.  Both  classes  were  marked  by  like  quali- 
ties of  composition  —  great  explicitness  of  plan,  ample  illustration, 
and  abundant  generalization. 

A  third  type  of  paper,  somewhat  less  abstract  than  these  two,  in- 
cluded essays  made  up  of  general  reflections  interspersed  with  "  char- 
Character  acters."  This  type  was  peculiarly  Steele's;  whenever, 
essays  from   early   in   the    Tatler  to   the   end  of  the  Spectator, 

he  had  occasion  to  treat  of  the  broader  aspects  of  social  life  —  types 
of  character,  good  breeding,  conversation  —  it  was  in  this  mold 
that  he  tended  to  cast  his  thought.  As  in  the  model  of  the  genre, 
Les  Caracteres  of  La  Bruyere,  the  function  of  the  "  characters " 
was  primarily  illustrative.  They  were  embedded  in  the  reflections, 
sometimes  one  in  an  essay,  sometimes  several.    In  manner,  too,  they 


xxxvi  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

owed  much  to  La  Bruyere.  All  his  favorite  devices  of  exposition 
—  dialogue,  apostrophe,  description,  narrative  —  reappeared  in  the 
work  of  Steele  and  his  imitators.  Even  the  names  were  largely  of  the 
same  type.  For  a  few  characters  who  bore  English  names,  such  as 
Will  Nice,  Tom  Folio,  Ned  Softly,  there  were  numerous  others  — 
Clarissa,  Nobilis,  Senecio,  Urbanus,  Flavia,  Eusebius  —  who  clearly 
belonged  with  La  Bruyere's  Romans  and  (ireeks.  Such,  in  general, 
were  the  typical  character-essays  of  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator.  In 
addition  there  were  a  few  others,  such  as  the  account  of  the  club  at 
the  Trumpet  and  the  description  of  Mr.  Spectator's  friends,  in  which 
the  portraits  were  presented  for  their  own  sake,  independently  of 
any  general  ideas  they  might  serve  to  illustrate.  But  papers  of  this 
sort  appeared  too  infrequently  to  constitute  a  separate  type. 

Sometimes,  again,  the  essayist,  instead  of  pointing  his  moral  with  a 
"  character,"  employed  for  the  same  purpose  an  incident  or  scene 
Anecdotal  •  from  his  observation  of  the  life  around  him.  Thus, 
essays  Addison,    who   perhaps   made   most   use   of   the   device, 

introduced  his  remarks  on  popular  superstitions  in  Spectator  7  with 
an  account  of  a  conversation  at  a  friend's  dinner  table.  In  this  case 
the  anecdote  preceded  the  reflections,  which  were  represented  as 
rising  naturally  out  of  it ;  in  other  cases  the  order  was  reversed. 
Whatever  the  order,  the  moral  of  the  essay  commonly  appeared  as 
subsidiary  to  the  concrete  happening  which  started  the  essayist's 
train  of  thought. 

Still  another  group  of  essays  was  made  up  of  those  containing 
letters  from  correspondents,  real  or  imaginary.  This  type,  a  favor- 
Letter  ite  with  all  contributors,  flourished  in  several  varieties, 
essays  Sometimes  the  essayist  presented  his  correspondent's 
words  without  comment ;  sometimes  he  added  remarks  of  his  own, 
intended  to  supplement  or  enforce  the  point  of  the  letter.  In  many 
cases  one  letter  only  was  given ;  in  others  the  paper  contained  sev- 
eral, all  perhaps  dealing  with  different  subjects.  Nor  were  the  letters 
themselves  all  of  the  same  pattern.  Some  were  sketches  of  character, 
others  were  requests  for  advice,  still  others  were  narratives  of  real 
life  or  satirical  accounts  of  contemporary  fashions  and  conditions. 

Finally,  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator  contained  a  great  many 
essays  of  a  type  predominantly  narrative.  Some,  perhaps  most,  of 
these  dealt  with  simple  incidents  of  everyday  life  set  in  a  background 


INTRODl'CTION  xxxvii 

of  contemporary  manners.  Such,  f<jr  example,  were  the  accounts  of 
Jenny  Distaff's  love  affair  and  marriage,  and  the  story  of  Orlando, 
Narrative  "^  the  Taller ;  and  the  narratives  of  Mr.  Spectator's 
essays  yjsit  to   Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  country  place  and  of 

the  old  knight's  return  journey  to  London,  in  the  Speclafor.  For 
the  most  part  in  these  narrative  papers  the  element  of  moralizing 
was  slight,  though  it  was  nearly  always  present ;  and  the  interest  of 
the  essays  for  both  winters  and  readers  lay  in  their  faithful  pictures 
of  the  habits  and  acts  of  ordinary  English  people.  Not  all  of  the 
narratives  in  the  periodicals,  however,  were  of  this  realistic  sort. 
With  the  serious-minded  readers  of  the  early  eighteenth  century 
few  essays  enjoyed  a  greater  vogue  than  those  cast  in  the  form  of 
visions  or  oriental  allegories.  Steele  experimented  with  this  type  in 
one  or  two  papers  early  in  the  Taller  \  but  it  remained  for  Addison 
to  develop  it  into  a  hnishcd  medium  for  the  expression  of  moral 
and  religious  ideas. 

These,  then,  were  some  of  the  typical  forms  into  which  the  writers 
for  the  Taller  and  the  Speclator  cast  their  ethical  teaching  and  their 
critical  comment  on  the  life  of  the  day.  They  were  not,  however, 
always  content  to  limit  themselves  to  these  main  types.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  never  ceased  to  invent  new  devices,  which  they  employed 
perhaps  no  more  than  once  or  twice  and  then  completely  neglected. 
To  this  class  of  special  essays  belonged,  in  the  Taller^  the  papers  on 
the  Com't  of  Honor,  on  the  adventures  of  a  shilling,  and  on  frozen 
words  ;  in  the  Speelalor,  the  journal  of  the  Indian  kings,  the  anatomy 
of  the  coquette's  heart,  the  diary  of  Clarinda,  the  minutes  of  the 
Everlasting  Club,  and  the  account  of  Pug  the  Monkey.  Taken  all 
together  they  furnished  a  striking  manifestation  of  the  diversity  of 
method  and  device  which  the  new  conditions  of  publication  made 
characteristic  of  the  essay. 

When  the  daily  issue  of  the  Spcelalor  came  to  an  end  in  December, 

1 7 12,  the  eighteenth-century  essay  in  all  its  varieties  was  fully  formed. 

Thenceforward  for  over  a  hundred  years  the  history  of 
The  later  his-    ,        ,       .,.  .       ^,      ,       ,  ,        ,  .  r     , 

tory  of  the      t'le   familiar   essay   in    England   was   the   history   of   the 

periodical        imitations  made  of  this  fixed  and  established  type.    Many, 
perhaps   most,    of    these    imitations   appeared   in   single- 
sheet  journals  modeled  closely  on  the  Taller-^  by  1809  no  less  than  220 
such  periodicals  had  seen  the  light  in  London  and  other  cities  of  the 


xxxviii  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

British  Isles.  Of  the  early  ventures  of  this  type  the  most  notable  were 
the  Guardian  (17  13),  edited  by  Steele  and  written  by  him  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Addison,  Pope,  and  others,  and  the  revived  Spectator  (^i-ji^), 
the  work  almost  entirely  of  Addison.  Then  for  a  number  of  years 
the  single-sheet  papers  took  on  a  prevailingly  political  character,  the 
reflection  in  large  measure  of  the  bitter  party  strife  which  raged 
under  the  first  two  Georges ;  and  familiar  essays,  though  they  con- 
tinued to  appear,  became  almost  swamped  under  the  stream  of  purely 
controversial  writing.  Toward  the  middle  of  the  century,  however, 
journals  of  a  more  general  nature  again  came  into  vogue.  T/ie 
Champion  (1739-1741),  a  semi-political  paper  to  which  the  chief 
contributor  was  Henry  Fielding,  was  followed  by  the  Rambler 
(1750-1752),  a  strictly  literary  production,  written  almost  entirely 
by  Dr.  Johnson;  the  Covent-Gardcn  Journal  {i'] ^^2),  another  enter- 
prise of  Fielding's;  the  Adveiiturer  (175 2-1  754),  a  journal  edited  by 
John  Hawkesworth  with  the  aid  of  Johnson;  the  World  (1753- 
1756);  the  Connoisseur  {\it^ci^-\-^z^(i)\  '&\q  Bee  (1759);  the  Mirror 
(1779-1780);  "the  Lounger  (17S5-1787);  the  Observer  (1785- 
1790)  ;  and  numerous  others  to  the  end  of  the  century.  But  journals 
of  this  sort  were  not  the  only  repositories  in  which  the  imitators 
of  Addison  and  Steele  published  their  works.  Many  essays  of  the 
Tatler  and  Spectator  type  appeared  in  the  somewhat  restricted  columns 
of  the  daily  and  weekly  newspapers ;  it  was  in  a  newspaper,  for 
example,  that  Johnson  printed  his  Idler  papers,  and  Goldsmith  his 
Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the  World.  Many  also  appeared  in  the 
monthly  magazines  which  in  constantly  increasing  numbers  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  successful  Gentleman'' s  Magazine  (founded  1731). 
And  a  few  writers  resorted  to  the  practice,  universal  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  of  publishing  essays  for  the  first  time  in  volumes.  To 
this  last  class  belonged  Vicesimus  Knox,  whose  Essays  Moral  and 
Literary  (177 8- 177 9)  revealed  a  marked  admiration  for  the  great 
masters  of  the  periodical  form. 

Of  the  many  essayists  who  in  the  middle  and  later  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century  carried  on  the  traditions  of  Addison  and  Steele, 
two  won  in  a  peculiar  measure  the  admiration  of  their  contemporaries 
-r-  Samuel  Johnson  and  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Johnson's  career  as  a  familiar  essayist  fell  entirely  within  the 
decade  of  the  fifties.    In  1750  he  began  to  publish  the  Rambler.,  a 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

paper  of  the  type  of  the  Tafler  diwd  the  Spectator;  it  ran  until  1752, 
and  though  only  moderately  successful  when  first  issued,  took  its 
J,        ,  place  as  one  of  the  standard  essay-collections  of  the  cen- 

johnson  tury  when  reprinted  in  volumes.   Between  1752  and  1754 

(1709-1784)  j-jg  contributed  a  number  of  papers  to  Hawkesworth's 
Adventurer,  and  in  1758  he  started  in  a  weekly  newspaper  a  series 
of  essays  entitled  T/ie  Idler,  which  continued  to  appear  during  two 
years.  In  all  of  these  ventures  Johnson's  aims  closely  resembled 
those  of  the  great  essayists  of  the  beginning  of  the  century.  The 
name  "  periodical  mentor,"  which  he  frequently  applied  to  himself, 
exactly  expressed  the  spirit  and  purpose  of  his  work ;  he  wrote  pri- 
marily to  satirize  and  correct.  In  his  methods  of  composition,  too,  he 
approved  himself  a  faithful  follower  of  Addison  and  Steele,  writing 
"  papers  of  morality,"  oriental  apologues,  sketches  of  domestic  life, 
character-essays,  criticisms,  letters,  with  little  if  any  deviation  from 
the  model  which  they  had  set.  Only  in  two  respects,  indeed,  did  his 
practice  differ  markedly  from  theirs.  For  one  thing,  though  he  did 
not  entirely  withhold  his  satire  from  the  lighter  aspects  of  social  life, 
—  witness  the  letter  in  the  Rambler  from  the  young  lady  who  found 
country  life  a  bore,  and  the  Dick  Minim  papers  in  the  Idler, —  still 
his  preference  was  for  subjects  of  a  serious  moral  and  religious 
import  —  abstraction  and  self-examination,  patience,  the  folly  of 
anticipating  misfortunes.  Again,  the  style  in  which  he  clothed  his 
thoughts,  especially  in  the  Rambler,  drew  little  of  its  inspiration  from 
the  polished  but  colloquial  English  of  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator. 
Though  he  was  to  write,  in  The  lives  of  the  Poets,  perhaps  the  most 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  the  qualities  of  Addison's  style  which  the 
eighteenth  century  produced,  in  his  own  work  he  strove  for  a  stateli- 
ness  and  balance  of  rhythm  and  a  Latinized  dignity  of  vocabulary 
quite  remote  from  the  simplicity  and  ease  of  his  predecessor. 

Goldsmith  appeared  before  the  public  as  an  essayist  almost  a 
decade  later  than  Johnson.  He  began  to  contribute  to  the  Monthly 
Q..  Review  and  other  periodicals  in    1757,   but  his  charac- 

Goldsmith  teristic  manner  first  became  manifest  in  a  number  of 
{1728-1774)  miscellaneous  papers  which  he  wrote  in  1759  for  a  short- 
lived journal  called  The  Bee.  In  1760  and  1761  he  contributed  to 
the  Public  Ledger  a  series  of  123  letters  purporting  to  be  written  by 
a  philosophical  Chinaman  sojourning  in  England,  which  were  later 


xl  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

reprinted  under  tlie  title  of  llie  Citizen  of  the  World}  Lhese  letters 
eonstituted  his  most  extensive  and  elaborate  excursion  into  the  held 
of  the  essay.  With  the  exception  of  a  collected  edition  of  his  various 
papers  which  appeared  in  1765,  they  were  also  his  last  publication  in 
that  genre. 

Goldsmith  developed  quite  another  side  of  his  inheritance  from  the 
earlier  essayists  than  did  Johnson  —  the  side  of  humor  and  social  satire. 
He  did  not,  to  be  sure,  altogether  neglect  serious  themes.  Among 
his  essays  were  numerous  papers  of  literary  criticism,  a  few  general 
ethical  discussions,  and  at  least  one  oriental  allegory  —  the  story  of 
Asem  —  the  moral  of  which  was  quite  as  weighty  as  that  of  any 
similar  production  of  Addison  or  Johnson.  Eut  these  were  not  his 
favorite  or  most  characteristic  subjects.  It  was  when  he  was  recording 
his  own  or  his  Chinese  traveler's  opinions  on  the  English  passion  for 
politics  and  newspapers,  on  the  quack  doctors  of  London,  on  the 
length  of  ladies'  trains,  on  gambling  among  women,  on  the  races 
at  Newmarket,  on  the  manners  of  fashionable  shopkeepers,  on  the 
pride  and  luxuiy  of  the  middle  class,  or  picturing  domestic  life  in 
the  manner  of  Steele,  or  creating  fantasies  that  Addison  might  have 
envied,  that  his  true  genius  as  an  essayist  appeared  most  clearly. 
And  his  manner  was  perfectly  suited  to  his  substance  —  in  its 
simple  diction  and  constructions  and  its  conversational  tone  the 
direct  antithesis  of  the  manner  of  Johnson. 

The  type  of  essay  established  in  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator,  and 

cultivated  in  a  host  of  imitations  throughout  the  eighteenth  centur)% 

The  survival    peisisted  in  full  vigor  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth. 

of  the  peri-      Its  survival  was  especially  marked  in  such  magazines  of 

ica  essay     ^|^^  period  as  the  Gentlemaii's  and  the  European.    In  the 
in  the  early  '  ^ 

nineteenth  former,  for  example,  from  January,  1802,  to  November, 
century  1809,  there  appeared  regularly  a  series  of  essays  in  the 

manner  of  the  Spectator  under  the  general  title  of  The  Projector. 
After  the  latter  date  this  series  was  apparently  crowded  out  by  the 

*  The  method  employed  in  these  essays  was  by  no  means  a  new  (me.  Used 
by  Addison  in  Spectator  50,  it  had  become  especially  popular  after  the  pub- 
lication in  1 72 1  of  Montesquieu's  Lettres  persanes,  translated  into  English  in 
1735  as  Pejsian  Letters.  In  1757,  three  years  before  Goldsmith  began  his 
series  of  essays  in  the  Fubti'c  Ledger,  Horace  Walpole  published  a  Letter frvm 
Xo  Ho,  a  Chinese  PhiJosophcr  at  London,  to  his  Friend  Lien  Chi  at  Peliing. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

growing  pressure  of  miscellaneous  contributions  from  correspondents; 
no  reason,  however,  was  given  for  its  somewhat  sudden  discontin- 
uance, and  it  seems  to  have  been  popular  to  the  last.  In  the 
European  Magazine  essays  of  the  eighteenth-century  type  were 
published  regularly  and  in  considerable  numbers  for  at  least  twenty 
years  after  the  opening  of  the  century.  I'hus  the  issue  for  August, 
1800,  had  an  "  Essay  on  Fashion,"  manifestly  modeled  on  the  moral- 
izing papers  of  the  Rambler  \  and  the  numbers  for  November  and 
December  contained  each  an  "  Essay  after  the  Manner  of  Goldsmith." 
I5etween  January  and  June,  1805,  imitations  of  Johnson  were  partic- 
ularly numerous,  two  in  the  January  number  being  described  as  "  by 
(he  author  of  the  '  ICssavs  after  the  Manner  of  (loldsmith' "  ;  while 
from  April  to  November  of  the  same  year  a  series  called  The  Jester 
carried  on  the  lighter  traditions  of  the  Spectator,  with  all  the  para- 
phernalia of  correspondents  and  characters  invented  for  illustration. 
In  the  numbers  for  July  to  December,  181 1,  the  essays  were  about 
evenly  divided  between  imitations  of  the  Spectator  and  heavier  imita- 
tions of  the  Rambler.  Nor  was  this  the  end.  For  at  least  another  ten 
years  essays  on  the  model  of  one  or  another  of  the  great  eighteenth- 
century  writers  continued  to  appear  in  the  European  —  contributors 
who  affected  lightness  and  cleverness  following  Addison  or  Gold- 
smith, those  who  were  oppressed  with  the  seriousness  of  life  finding 
their  inspiration  in  I  )r.  Johnson. 

III.    THE   NEW  MAGAZINE   ESSAY   OF  THE   NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 

Within  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  type  of 
familiar  essay  was  developed  which  has  continued  to  the  present.  By 
1S25  it  had  largely  supplanted  the  imitations  of  the  Tatler  and 
Spectator,  and  Lamb,  Hunt,  Hazlitt,  De  Quincey,  and  other  writers 
had  won  for  it  a  popularity  that  the  essay  had  not  enjoyed  for  a  long 
time.    The  new  type  differed  from  the  old  in  many  essential  respects. 

In  the  first  place,  the  new  essay  had  a  much  wider, range  of  sub- 
ject than  the  old.  It  was  no  longer  confined  largely  to  "  the  Town," 
to  the  fashions  and  foibles  of  society,  to  problems  of  conduct  and 
manners,  or  to  the  general  principles  of  morality.  There  was,  indeed, 
no  general  uniformity  of  topic.    Each  essayist  wrote  upon  whatever 


xlii  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

presented  itself  to  him  as  an  attractive  or  congenial  theme ;  his  range 

of  subject  was  determined  only  by  the  breadth  or  narrowness  of  his 

individual  interests  and  sympathies.  Lamb  wrote  of  his 
Wide  range  r  <•    i 

of  subject  of    schoolboy    life,    of   his    daily    occupations,    his   vacation 

the  new  excursions,  his  friends  and  his  family,  his  personal  sym- 

6SS£LV 

pathies  and  antipathies ;  Leigh  Hunt  chatted  about  his 
reading,  his  fireside  comforts,  the  interesting  individuals  or  types  he 
had  observed  or  experiences  he  had  encountered,  or  tried  to  discover 
compensation  for  the  deaths  of  little  children ;  Hazlitt  lingered  over 
his  books  or  recalled  his  first  meeting  with  poets  later  famous, 
recounted  the  delights  of  a  solitary  tramp  in  the  open  country  and 
the  evening  comforts  of  an  inn,  presented  the  pleasures  of  painting 
or  of  hating,  or  considered  the  basis  of  his  deepest  feelings ;  De 
Quincey  gossiped  of  his  acquaintances  or  recalled  gorgeous  or 
terrible  dream  fancies.  As  many  writers  of  the  new  essay,  including 
Lamb  and  Hunt  and  Hazlitt,  spent  their  most  active  years  in  London, 
they  frequently,  of  course,  wrote  on  some  aspect  of  London  life, 
but  their  subjects  included  such  as  had  been  in  large  measure 
beneath  the  sympathetic  regard  of  the  eighteenth-century  essayists  — 
chimney  sweeps,  the  postman,  clerks,  artisans,  and  sailors. 

In  manner  of  presentation  and  purpose,  too,  the  new  essay  was 
markedly  different  from  the  old.  One  of  the  most  characteristic  dif- 
Directness  fcrences  is  that  the  essa}ist  no  longer  hid  his  individuality 
and  individ-  behind  the  elaborately  sustained  figure  of  an  invented 
the  new  ^^i'-  T'ickerstaff,  or  Mr.  Spectator,  or  Chinese  Traveler, 

essay  but  wrote  in  his  own  person.    ICven  when  through  diffi- 

dence he  employed  the  editorial  plural  or  adopted  a  pen-name,  he 
really  expressed  his  own  personality,  and  his  thin  disguise  was  easily 
penetrable.  Many  other  long-used  conventions  were  almost  wholly 
discarded ;  for  example,  the  machinery  of  clubs  and  correspondents, 
the  visions  and  apologues,  and  the  invented  characters  with  classical 
or  pseudo-classical  names.  The  classics,  too,  and  classical  history 
were  less  drawn  upon  for  mottoes  and  quotations  and  illustrations. 
In  general,  there  was  much  less  artificiality  and  much  greater  direct- 
ness, and  a  strong  tendency  to  rely  for  illustration  upon  the  personal 
experience  of  the  writer  or  of  his  acquaintances,  upon  contemporary 
events  or  those  of  comparatively  recent  history,  and  upon  modern  or 
native  literature.    Nor,  as  a  rule,  was  the  new  essay  marked  by  the 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

satiric  or  didactic  tone  that  generally  pervaded  the  old.  The  eight- 
eenth-century essay  was  largely  social  in  character,  and  professed  as 
its  principal  aim  a  reformation  of  the  delinquencies  and  peccadillos  of 
society.  The  new  essay  was  just  as  distinctly  individualistic  ;  as  a  liter- 
ary form  it  was  not  the  vehicle  of  any  propaganda.  The  character  of 
each  essayist's  w'ork  as  a  whole  was  determined  purely  by  his  peculiar 
temperament,  and  any  single  essay  might  reflect  his  mood  of  a  moment 
or  the  deeply  grounded  philosophy  of  his  lifetime.  The  one  property 
common  to  the  essayists  of  the  early  nineteenth  century  is  their  ego- 
tism ;  they  were  chiefly  interested  in  themselves,  and  were  frank, 
though  by  no  means  offensively  so,  in  the  expression  of  this  inter- 
est. This  frankness  of  egotism,  however,  is  characteristic  of  the 
period  rather  than  of  the  literary  type,  although,  of  course,  a  strongly 
personal  coloring  is  never  absent  from  the  familiar  essay  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

Of  all  the  differences  between  the  essay  of  the  eighteenth  century 
and  that  of  the  nineteenth,  the  most  obvious  is  the  much  greater  length 

of  the  latter.  As  the  content  of  a  piece  of  writing  is  largely 
Greater  ,  ,  ,  .     .  ^  t,  t>    j 

length  of  dependent  upon  the  space  it  is  to  occupy,  the  greater 
the  new  length  of  the  new  essay  is  one  of  its  essential  character- 

istics. The  eighteenth-century  essay  had  space  for  only 
sketches  and  outlines  or  for  the  treatment  of  a  very  limited  phase  of 
a  subject ;  the  new  essay  could  present  full-length  portraits  or  the 
development  of  ample  themes,  and  it  invited  digression.  The  Tatlcr 
and  Spectator  papers,  from  their  mode  of  publication  and  the  temper 
of  the  particular  reading  public  to  whom  they  were  directed,  were 
very  brief,  ranging  from  about  twelve  hundred  to  fifteen  hundred 
words  each,  and  in  this  respect,  as  in  others,  they  were  followed  by 
their  imitators.  Of  the  founders  of  the  new  essay,  Leigh  Hunt  most 
closely  resembled  the  writers  of  the  preceding  century  in  brevity ; 
probably  in  part  because  of  his  temperament,  and  in  part  because, 
like  the  earlier  essayists,  he  wTote  principally  for  newspapers  or  for 
periodicals  modeled  upon  the  Tatlcr.  Lamb  was  between  the  old  and 
the  new,  the  Essays  of  Elia  averaging  from  one  and  a  half  to  two  times 
the  length  of  the  eighteenth-century  periodical  essay.  The  greater 
number  of  Hazlitt's  essays  were  three  or  four  times  as  long  as  those 
of  the  Spectator  type ;  in  this,  as  in  so  many  other  respects,  they  were 
wholly  of  the  new  order.   Even  within  such  expanded  limits  l)e  Quincey 


xliv  THE  1-:NGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

was  unable  to  confine  liimself,  and  some  of  his  papers  were  inordi- 
nately long.  Naturally,  there  cannot  be  any  definitely  fixed  length  for 
the  essay,  but  so  far  as  there  is  any  standard,  that  set  by  Hazlitt  be- 
came generally  observed  and  is  now  usually  followed.  It  permits  the 
writer  to  treat  his  theme  with  reasonable  fullness,  but  checks  a  pres- 
entation that  would  tax  the  capacity  of  the  reader  at  a  single  sitting. 

The  changed  character  of  the  essay  was  the  effect  of  a  number  of 
causes.  The  first  was  the  progress  of  Romanticism,  which,  by  1820, 
Causes  of  throughout  the  world  of  literature  had  resulted  in  the 
the  change  expression  of  new  interests  or  of  those  long  dormant,  — 
character  of  particularly  the  interest  the  individual  felt  in  himself,  — 
the  essay  in  the  abandonment  of  old  standards  and  conventions, 
and  in  experimentation  with  new  or  long-disused  forms.  Individualism 
had  been  strongly  stimulated.  The  essayists  were  moved  by  the  same 
forces  as  the  poets.  Indeed,  in  practically  all  essentials  there  is  a 
manifest  similarity  between  the  new  poetry  and  the  new  essay.  The 
second  cause  is  closely  related  to  the  first :  the  new  forces  in  life  and 
literature  affected  men  of  original  and  responsive  genius,  capable  of 
developing  a  new  type  of  essay,  and  by  the  success  of  their  own 
efforts  influential  in  establishing  it  in  popular  favor.  The  services  of 
Lamb  and  Hunt  and  Hazlitt  are  exactly  comparable  to  those  of 
Wordsworth  and  Pjyron  and  Keats.  A  less  general  and  somewhat 
more  tangible  influence  was  the  greatly  heightened  interest  in 
Montaigne.  His  Essais,  in  Cotton's  translation,  was  one  of  the 
small  stock  of  books  identified  as  certainly  belonging  to  Lamb ;  he 
was  quoted  or  appreciatively  referred  to  several  times  by  Leigh 
Hunt ;  and  Hazlitt  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  Essais  and  a 
consistent  admirer  of  both  their  matter  and  their  manner. 

Rut  the  single  factor  of  greatest  moment  in  the  development  of  the 

new  type  was  the  establishment  of  the  modern  literary  magazine.    At 

the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  publication  of 

Establish-  *  ^  ,        r  1        r      ,  •  r     , 

ment  of  mod-  essays  as  independent  periodicals  after  the  fashion  of  the 

em  literary     Tatlcr  and  the  Spectator  had  largely  given  way  to  publica- 

magazines         .        .  ,  ■  ^1     •        1        1  n 

tion  in  newspapers  and  magazines.    Obviously,  the  small 

news  sheets  could  not  provide  space  for  any  considerable  expansion 

of  the  essay,  which,  moreover,  was  merely  an  excrescent  growth  upon 

them.    Nor  did  the  existing  magazines,  such  as  the  Gentle7nan''s  and 

the  European,  offer  much  greater  possibilities.    They  were  literally 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

magazines,  overcrowded  depositories  of  miscellaneous  matter — mete- 
orological data,  tables  of  the  values  of  stocks,  parliamentary  reports, 
records  of  births  and  deaths,  cursory  reviews,  notes  of  the  stage  and 
the  arts,  letters'  from  correspondents  and  answers  to  them,  and  curi- 
ous information  on  a  variety  of  topics.  Literature  was  usually  repre- 
sented in  a  small  section  devoted  to  whatever  of  essays,  sketches, 
verse,  etc.  the  editor  needed  to  fill  out  his  ninety-odd  pages,  or  had 
not  the  heart  to  reject.  Rarely  did  a  number  of  one  of  the  old  maga- 
zines have  a  single  article  of  genuine  literary  merit  or  interest.  And 
the  critical  reviews  were  even  more  hopelessly  dull  and  wanting  in 
originality.  Both  classes  of  periodicals  were  almost  wholly  the  product 
of  amateurs  or  of  poorly  paid  drudges. 

Vivification  of  the  literary  periodical  first  manifested  itself  in  the 
critical  reviews  with  the  establishment  of  the  Edinburgh '  Rcvietv  in 
1802  and  the  Quarterly  Reviezv  in  1809,  the  former  a  Whig,  the 
latter  a  Tory  organ.  From  the  first  the  rivalr}'^  between  them  was 
intense ;  and  the  liberal  payments  to  contributors  soon  attracted  to 
each  a  group  of  vigorous  young  writers,  whose  pronouncements 
upon  the  social,  political,  and  literary  questions  of  the  day,  whatever 
they  lacked  in  deptli  and  poise,  certainly  wanted  nothing  in  assur- 
ance and  energy.  Both  the  Edinburgh  and  the  Quarterly  became 
immediately  and  dominantly  popular. 

The  first  notable  effort  to  establish  a  distinctly  literary  magazine 
was  made  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Reft  erf  or  (1811-1812).  Lack  of 
financial  support,  however,  and  other  causes  not  now  known  made  the 
venture  abortive.  But  only  a  few  years  later  the  first  modern  maga- 
zinewas  actually  founded.  The  success  of  the  new  reviews  prompted 
William  Blackwood,  an  active  and  astute  Edinburgh  publisher,  to  set 
up  a  magazine  which  should  be  equally  different  from  the  dull  and 
characterless  miscellanies  then  in  existence.  He  was  unfortunate, 
however,  in  the  first  selection  of  his  staff,  and  the  initial  number  of 
BlacJzwofld's  Magazine,  which  appeared  in  April,  1S17,  gave  no  real 
promise  of  originality  or  increased  attractiveness.  But  with  the 
October  number  John  Wilson  (''  Christopher  North  "),  together  with 
Lockhart,  joined  Blackwood's  forces  ;  and  the  former,  particularly,  im- 
parted to  the  magazine  a  character  derived  from  his  own  freshness 
and  high  spirits.  Almost  instantly  Btatkwood''s  leaped  into  a  more 
than  local  popularity. 


xlvi  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  success  of  Blackwood's  encouraged  the  establishment  of  the 
first  magazine  of  similar  character  in  London.  This  was  the  London 
Magazine,  the  initial  number  of  which  appeared  in  January,  1820. 
Its  first  editor,  John  Scott,  was  apparently  given  a  free  hand  by  the 
owners ;  he,  in  turn,  threw  open  the  pages  of  the  London  to  good 
writing  on  almost  any  subject  and  paid  for  it  liberally.  As  a  result  of 
this  policy  the  L^ondon  commanded  the  pens  of  original  and  attractive 
writers  and  from  the  beginning  was  of  interest  and  high  standing. 
After  the  death  of  Scott  in  a  duel,  rapid  changes  in  the  control  of  the 
magazine  ensued,  the  result  of  which  was  a  swift  descent  in  its  for- 
tunes. But  it  had  shown  the  way  to  success  and  had  set  up  a  new 
standard  for  magazines.  The  conduct  of  the  Nciv  Monthly  Magazine 
illustrates  the  force  of  the  example  set  by  the  London.  The  Neiv 
Monthly,  which  was  founded  in  18 14,  during  the  first  seven  years  of 
its  existence  was  distinguished  in  no  vital  respect  from  the  older  mis- 
cellanies. In  1820,  however,  the  popularity  of  the  L^ondoji  forced  a 
change  of  policy :  it  was  placed  under  the  editorship  of  Campbell,  the 
poet,  and  inaugurating  a  new  series  with  the  first  number  for  182 1,  it 
became  of  the  new  order.  Within  a  few  more  years  many  magazines 
of  the  older  type  had  disappeared  and  very  much  the  kind  of  maga- 
zine we  know  to-day  had  become  definitely  established. 

Probably  the  most  obvious  contribution  of  the  modern  magazine  to 

the  development  of  the  essay  was  the  encouragement  to  expansion 

Obligations      beyond  the  former  narrow  limits,  an  expansion  impossible 

of  the  new      jj^  |-j^g   newspapers   or   in  the   older  magazines,   divided 

essay  to  the  .  ^ 

modern  as  they  were  mto  numerous  crowded  departments.    1  he 

magazine  ^^^-^  magazines,  unburdened  with  the  traditions  that  ham- 
pered the  old,  and  thus  excluding  much  of  the  journalistic  matter 
appearing  in  their  predecessors,  were  able  to  provide  not  merely  a 
page  or  two  for  an  essay,  but  six  or  eight,  and  on  occasion,  ten 
or  twelve  or  twenty  pages.  They  thus  made  possible  the  changed 
content  and  manner  of  the  essay,  which  could  result  only  from  an 
enlargement  of  its  physical  limits. 

But  increased  length  and  all  that  goes  with  it  was  not  the  only  in- 
debtedness of  the  new  essay  to  the  new  magazine.  Blackwootfs  and 
the  London  could  make  a  place  for  themselves  only  by  being  different 
from  the  long-established  magazines,  by  surpassing  them  in  literary 
interest  and  attractiveness ;  their  editors  and  owners  accordingly  vied 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

with  one  another  in  offering  inducements  to  writers  of  original  power, 
paying  them  with  hitherto  unexampled  liberality  and  leaving  them  free 
to  write  as  their  own  genius  might  direct.  Finally,  the  very  fact  that 
these  magazines  were  new,  that  they  were  unfettered  by  hampering 
precedents,  was  in  itself  a  strong  incentive  to  break  away  from  ex- 
isting conventions  and  to  test  new  forms  and  modes.  Lamb,  Hunt, 
Hazlitt,  Wilson,  and  De  Quincey  are  chief  among  the  founders  of 
the  new  essay ;  though  Hunt,  the  least  modern  of  the  group,  owed 
comparatively  little  to  the  new  magazines,  even  he  departed  from 
his  eighteenth-centuiy  models  for  the  first  time  in  the  Reflectory  and 
Blacktuood's  produced  Wilson's  sketches,  and  the  London  stimulated 
Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  De  Quincey  to  discover  their  peculiar  genius  and 
to  give  it  expression.  Extremely  significant  is  the  fact  that  the  great 
body  of  familiar  essays  produced  within  the  last  century  has  been 
written  for  the  modern  magazine,  the  direct  successor  of  Blachciooifs 
and  the  London. 

During  the  period  within  which  the  new  essay  was  established 
Lamb,  Hunt,  and  Hazlitt  were  the  most  notable  writers  —  notable 
for  their  relations  to  the  older  type  or  for  their  influence  upon  the 
development  of  the  new,  as  well  as  for  the  permanent  interest  and 
attractiveness  of  their  writings. 

Lamb's  first  essay,  "  The  Londoner,"  was  printed  in  the  Adorning 
Post  for  February  i,  1802.  "  The  Londoner  "  promised  to  be  the  first 
Charles  ^^  ^  series,  but  the  promise  was  not  carried  out,  and  Lamb 

Lamb  wrote  no  Other  essays  until  the  establishment  of  Leigh 

(1775-1  34)  Hunt's  Reflector.  To  the  four  issues  of  this  magazine, 
which  appeared  probably  in  1811-1812,  he  contributed  a  number  of 
.short  essays  as  well  as  two  important  critical  papers.  Consequent 
upon  the  death  of  the  Reflector  was  a  period  of  scant  productivity, 
which  lasted  until  the  appearance  of  the  London  Magazine  in  1820. 
Lamb's  first  contribution  to  this  magazine,  "  The  South  Sea  House," 
appeared  in  the  number  for  August,  1820;  his  last,  "  Stage  Illusion," 
in  that  for  August,  1825.  Between  these  two  dates,  writing  over  the 
pen-name  "  Elia,"  which  he  had  appropriated  from  an  Italian  fellow 
clerk  of  the  South  Sea  House,  Lamb  published  in  the  LLondon  practi- 
cally all  his  most  characteristic  essays.  After  1820  he  wrote  but  little 
except  for  the  L.ondon,  and  after  1826  he  practically  ceased  writing  at 
all,  his  only  considerable  papers  being  three  or  four  for  the  ephemeral 


xlviii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

Euglishman^s  Magasi/ie  in  1831.  Collections  of  Lamb's  essays  were 
made  three  times  before  his  death  in  1834:  his  JFor/cs  (1818)  con- 
tained most  of  his  earlier  pieces,  and  the  jEss/7Vs  of  Elia  (1823)  and 
the  Last  Essays  of  Elia  (1833)  included  most  of  his  contributions  to 
the  London  as  well  as  a  few  of  both  his  earlier  and  his  later  papers. 

Lamb's  earlier  essays  were  written  under  the  influence  of  the  long- 
established  models.  His  first  venture,  "  The  Londoner,"  was  obviously 
imitative,  owing  much  in  particular  to  the  first  number  of  the 
Spectator  \  and  most  of  his  brief  papers  in  the  Reflector  were  con- 
siderably indebted  to  the  seventeenth-century  "  character  "  or  to  the 
Tatter  and  its  successors.^  Moreover,  even  in  the  period  of  Lamb's 
most  thoroughly  original  work,  when  Elia  was  doing  much  to 
establish  the  new  type  of  familiar  essay,  he  at  times  reverted  to  the 
manner  of  the  old :  the  first  part  of  "  Poor  Relations  "  is  patterned 
after  the  seventeenth-century  "  character  ";  .the  first  part  of  "The 
Wedding  "  is  wholly  in  the  manner  of  Steele's  sketches  of  domestic 
life ;  and  "  A  Vision  of  Horns,"  one  of  the  Essays  of  Etia  not  re- 
printed by  Lamb,  he  himself  characterized  as  "  resembling  the  most 
laboured  papers  in  the  Spectator. '''' 

But  by  far  the  greater  number  of  the  Elia  essays  were  no  more 
imitative  than  they  are  imitable ;  they  were  wholly  original  and  the 
expression  of  Lamb's  own  personality.  They  were  the  very  perfec- 
tion of  that  kind  of  intimate  writing  which  wins  not  merely  interest 
for  itself  but .  affection  for  the  writer.  The  content  of  these  essays 
was  varied.  A  few  were  playful  fantasies,  a  few  were  serious 
musings ;  a  small  number  presented  Lamb's  satirical  observation  and 
comment  upon  incongruities  of  conduct,  a  larger  number,  his  humor- 
ous observation  of  incident  and  character  ;  and  seven  or  eight  were, 
critical  papers  on  books  and  the  stage.  \\\  almost  every  one  of 
these  papers,  even  those  professedly  critical,  Lamb's  personality  was 
warmly  reflected,  and  by  far  the  greater  number  of  his  essays  were 
undisguised  autobiography  and  reminiscence,  written  in  the  first 
person.  They  recorded  ingenuously  his  sympathies  and  his  prejudices, 

1  Something  of  the  nature  of  the  relationship  between  Lamb's  early  papers 
and  the  eighteenth-century  periodical  essay  will  appear  from  an  examination 
of  "  A  Bachelor's  Complaint  of  the  Behaviour  of  Married  People,"  which 
appeared  first  in  the  Reflector -ixnA  was  later  reprinted  with  some  changes  as  an 
Elia  essay. 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

presented  him  and  his  family  and  his  friends,  disclosed  his  habits,  and 
unveiled  his  memories.  They  formed  almost  a  complete  record  of  his 
life,  together  with  an  intimate  and  candid  commentary  upon  it.  In 
them  appeared  his  tenderness  and  manliness,  his  tolerance  of  every- 
thing but  pretence  and  priggishness  and  complacent  stupidity,  his 
intensely  social  nature,  his  liking  for  people  with  some  harmless 
idiosyncrasy,  his  keen  observation  of  the  unexpected  hidden  amid  the 
commonplace,  his  devotion  to  his  old  folios,  and  his  half-humorous, 
half-pathetic  attitude  toward  life. 

Lamb's  most  fundamental  characteristic  was  his  humor  —  tender, 
playful,  fantastic,  never  bitter,  usually  warming  the  reader's  feeling 
or  flashing  a  glimpse  of  a  truth  hitherto  unconsidered.  Very  fre- 
quently the  vehicle  of  this  humor  was  a  comparison  startlingly 
unexpected,  but  perfectly  appropriate  and  owing  much  of  its  happi- 
ness of  effect  to  a  suggestion  of  incongruity.  The  illustrative  or 
figurative  half  of  such  a  comparison  was  usually  drawn  from  Lamb's 
familiar  acquaintance  with  English  literature  of  the  late  sixteenth  and 
the  seventeenth  century  —  Shakespeare  and  the  Elizabethan  dram- 
atists, Milton  and  Marvel],  Burton  and  Browne  and  Fuller,  and  the 
Bible.  From  the  same  sources  came  the  abundance  of  allusion  that 
enriched  every  page,  and  the  choice  of  word  and  turn  of  phrase  that 
gave  to  his  diction  its  archaic  flavor.  The  result  was  not  the  affecta- 
tion and  artificiality  that  might  have  been  expected,  but  v^hat  Lamb 
called  a  "  self-pleasing  quaintness,"  a  style  and  manner  peculiarly  his 
own  and  perfectly  expressive  of  his  individuality. 

About  two  years  after  the  appearance  of  Lamb's  "'  The  Londoner," 
Leigh  Hunt  began  to  contribute  his  juvenile  essays  to  the  Traveller 
Tames  Henry  newspaper  (1804-1805),  and  during  the  next  fifty  years, 
Leigh  Hunt  amid  much  ephemeral  matter,  largely  critical  or  joumal- 
(17  4-1  59)  istic,  a  very  considerable  body  of  familiar  essays  appeared 
from  his  pen.  Though  in  the  Reflector  (181 1-1812)  he  made  a  nota- 
ble attempt  to  found  a  literary  magazine,  yet  the  new  t}'pe  of  maga- 
zine, when  it  was  actually  established,  had  much  slighter  effect  upon 
his  development  than  upon  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries ;  by  far 
the  larger  number  of  his  essays  were  written  for  newspapers,  family 
miscellanies,  and  independent  sheets  patterned  somewhat  closely 
after  the  Tatlcr.  In  fact,  his  most  attractive  and  most  characteristic 
work  appeared  in  periodicals  of  the  kind  last  mentioned.    The  most 


1  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

important  of  these  was  the  earliest,  the  Indicator^  which  was  issued 
weekly  from  October  13,  18 19,  to  March  21,  1821.  Similar  in 
character  were  the  Companion  (1828)  and  Leigh  Hiinfs  London 
Journal  (1834-1835).  No  approximately  full  collection  of  Hunt's 
essays  was  made  before  his  death,  in  1859,  nor,  indeed,  has  any 
been  made  since.  Selections  from  the  Lndicator  and  the  Companion 
were  reprinted  in  1834;  and  the  Seer  (1840-1841),  Men.,  Women., 
and  Books  (1847),  ^^^  Table  Talk  (185 1)  contained  a  good  deal  of 
matter  that  had  previously  appeared.'^ 

The  influence  of  the  earlier  types  was  even  more  pervasive  and 
persistent  in  Hunt's  work  than  in  Lamb's.  Hunt's  papers  in  the 
Traveller  yNktXQ.  in  avowed  imitation  of  "the  Connoisseur  (i  754-1 756), 
itself  an  imitator  of  the  Taller  and  the  Spedalor.  In  the  Keflector, 
which  he  edited,  most  of  his  own  essays,  as  well  as  many  from  other 
contributors,  were  similar  in  subject  and  manner  to  those  of  Addison 
and  Goldsmith.  A  third  literary  venture  of  his,  the  Round  Table 
papers  in  the  Examiner  (18 15-18 17),  was  confessedly  designed 
after  the  Taller  and  the  Spectator.^  and  most  of  Hunt's  own  writing 
was  strongly  suggestive  of  his  reading  in  the  essays  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  influence  of  the  early  models  persisted  in  a  large  pro- 
portion of  even  his  most  individual  and  most  nearly  original  essays, 
such  as  those  written  for  the  Lndicator.  His  "  characters,"  particularly, 
a  form  which  he  cultivated  as  long  as  he  wrote,  owed  much  both  to 
the  seventeenth-centuiy  "  characters "  and  to  the  more  lifelike  and 
dramatic  studies  of  the   Taller  and  its  successors. 

Hunt's  own  everyday  experiences  and  his  observation  of  the 
everyday  life  about  him  formed  the  staple  of  his  essays :  he  wrote 
upon  books,  the  stage,  clothes,  manners  and  haljits,  the  weather,  ani- 
mal pets,  interesting  types  of  character,  the  life  of  the  London  streets, 
the  pleasures  and  the  discomforts  of  a  dweller  in  the  suburbs,  the 
joys  and  the  sorrows  of  domestic  life.  Jjooks  were  liis  chief  inter- 
est, and  his  reading  largely  colored  his  observation.  His  distinctive 
manner  first  showed  itself  in  "  A  Day  by  the  Fire,"  in  the  last  number 
of  the  Licfleclor — a  cheery,   familiarly   gossiping   presentation  of  a 

2  In  the  list  of  Hunt's  collected  essays,  one  feels  tempted  to  include  the 
Atitohiography  (1851,  1852,  revised  1S60)  ;  it  is  much  more  a  series  of  sketches 
and  reminiscences  than  a  connected  account  of  his  life,  and  it  has  the  chatty, 
intimate  manner  of  his  essays. 


INTRODUCTION  li 

book  lover's  enjoyment  of  his  snug  fireside.  Hunt's  personality  as 
revealed  in  his  essays,  unlike  Lamb's,  was  not  such  as  unfailingly 
to  win  the  reader's  appreciative  sympathy,  nor  was  he,  like  Hazlitt, 
keenly  analytical  or  deeply  reflective ;  he  was  merely  a  companion- 
able sort  of  person  who  chatted  entertainingly  about  everything  that 
caught  his  own  interest.  His  talk  was  sprightly,  frequently  inter- 
rupted to  touch  some  topic  that  had  suggested  itself,  now  colored 
with  sentiment,  now  shot  through  with  gentle  or  tricksy  humor.  Few 
essayists  have  conveyed  more  perfectly  than  Hunt  the  sense  of  their 
own  personality. 

Hazlitt  first  appeared  in  the  role  of  essayist  as  the  principal  asso- 
ciate of.  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Round  Table  papers  published  in  the 
William  Exajnincr\i(t\.\\(tt\\  Januaiy  i,  1815,  and  January  5,  18 17. 

Hazlitt  After   the   somewhat   abrupt   termination   of   this    series 

(1778-1830)  Hazlitt  turned  his  energies  for  a  few  years  very  largely 
to  the  preparation  of  lectures  on  English  literature,  in  the  mean- 
time writing  a  few  brief  essays  for  the  Edinburgh  Magazine,  New 
Series  (18 18).  With  the  establishment  of  the  London  Magazine,  in 
1820,  the  period  of  his  most  abundant  and  characteristic  work  as 
essayist  began.  In  the  periodicals  to  which  he  had  been  contributing 
he  had  been  cramped  for  room ;  now  he  had  space  in  which  to  write 
himself  out  upon  his  chosen  topics,  and  his  papers  accordingly  ex- 
panded to  two  or  three  times  their  former  length.  His  first  essay  in 
the  London  appeared  in  June,  1820,  and  he  wrote  regularly  for  this 
magazine  until  December,  182 1.  In  February  of  the  following  year 
he  allied  himself  with  the  revivified  New  Monthly  Alagazine,  to  which 
he  was  a  more  or  less  regular  contributor  until  his  death,  in  1830. 
He  occasionally  wrote  also  for  other  magazines,  for  newspapers,  and 
for  the  miscellanies  then  coming  into  popularity. 

These  contributions  to  periodicals  did  not  exhaust  Hazlitt's  fertility. 
In  1821-1822  he  published  under  the  title  Table  Talk  thirty-three 
essays,  twenty-six  of  which  had  not  been  printed  previously ;  and  in 
1826,  The  Plain  Speaker,  in  which  thirteen  of  the  thirty-two  essays 
were  new.  These  two  collections  contained  a  great  deal  of  his  most 
attractive  and  most  characteristic  writing.  Except  in  the  Round  Table 
(18 1 7),  Table  Talk,  and  The  Plain  Speaker,  Hazlitt  did  not  collect 
and  republish  his  essays.  In  1839  this  was  in  part  done  by  his  son 
in  Wintershmi  and  Essays  and  Sketches. 


Hi  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

In  the  Round  Table  paper  on  the  Tatlci\  Hazlitt  declared  Montaigne 
to  be  "  a  most  magnanimous  and  undisguised  egotist."  In  a  sense  — 
not  the  commonly  accepted  one,  to  be  sure  —  the  first  half  of  this 
characterization  might  be  applied  to  Hazlitt  as  well  as  to  Montaigne ; 
the  second  half,  without  any  qualification,  would  be  applied  to  him 
by  anyone  who  knew  him.  In  the  earlier  papers  of  Round  Table 
series  his  individuality  showed  strongly,  although  he  wrote  under  the 
restraint  of  the  editorial  and  collective  zve\  in  his  later  papers  he 
broke  through  even  this  thin  disguise  and  wrote  freely  and  openly  in 
his  own  person.  Very  few  of  his  essays  were  purely  autobiographic 
or  reminiscent ;  and  yet  he  wrote  the  whole  body  of  them  out  of 
himself,  and  into  them  he  wrote  himself  completely.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  discover  a  single  important  circumstance  of  his  life  to  which 
he  did  not  refer  in  his  writing,  and  equally  difiicult  to  find  a  paper  of 
his  in  which  he  did  not  exhibit  clearly  some  phase  of  his  many-angled , 
personality.  As  a  young  man  Hazlitt  studied  painting,  and  although 
he  was  unsuccessful  as  an  artist,  painting  and  the  great  painters 
remained  one  of  his  passions.  He  was  deeply  rather  than  widely 
read  —  in  Cervantes  and  Boccaccio,  in  certain  French  writers  from 
Montaigne  and  Rabelais  to  Rousseau,  and  in  English  literature  from 
the  time  of  Shakespeare.  His  personal  acquaintance  included  most 
of  the  writers  of  the  time,  for  whom  and  for  whose  works  he  had 
strong  —  and  usually  mixed  —  feelings  of  attachment  or  aversion. 
He  was  a  dramatic  critic  whose  enthusiasm  had  not  become  sated  or 
dulled.  He  fancied  himself  a  metaphysician,  and  was  much  given  to 
reflection  upon  philosophical  and  psychological  problems  and  proc- 
esses, particularly  upon  his  own  ideas  and  emotions.  This  speculative 
and  reflective  habit  of  mind  produced  his  somewhat  cynical  observa- 
tion of  society,  in  which  he  concerned  himself  much  more  with  the 
springs  of  conduct  than  with  speech  and  dress  and  manners,  though 
these  details  did  not  wholly  escape  his  animadversion.  Finally,  he 
remained  throughout  his  life  a  political  Radical,  preserving  unchanged 
his  hatred  of  repression  and  his  faith  in  the  doctrines  and  ideas  of  the 
French  Revolution.  Curiously  enough,  however,  he  saw  in  Napoleon 
the  embodiment  of  these  principles  and  made  him  the  "  god  of  his 
idolatry." 

Although  Hazlitt  was  almost  never  wholly  promiscuous  and  desul- 
tory, yet,  except  in  the  briefer  and  earlier  Round  Table  papers,  he 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

rarely  presented  a  carefully  ordered  treatment  of  a  subject.  His 
essays  had  much  of  the  discursive  character  of  talk  —  but  the  talk  of 
a  thinker  who  is  always  master  of  his  subject  and  is  never  mastered 
by  it.  His  manner  combined  a  good  deal  of  Montaigne's  reflective 
self-curiosity  with  Rousseau's  naked  self-revelation  of  feeling ;  he 
lacked,  however,  something  of  the  latter's  hectic  sentimentalism  as 
well  as  the  former's  open-mindedness.  Hazlitt's  style,  though  thor- 
oughly individual,  was  unusually  free  from  mannerisms ;  two  particu- 
lars of  it,  however,  were  very  striking.  The  first  was  his  fondness  for 
quotation,  frequently  remembered  inexactly  and  almost  as  frequently 
somewhat  changed  to  secure  greater  appositeness.  The  quotations 
were  never  paraded,  and  appeared  as  congruous  and  native  as 
Hazlitt's  own  diction.  The  second  was  his  favorite  practice  of  begin- 
ning a  paper,  particularly  one  on  a  speculative  or  reflective  theme,  by 
some  striking  statement,  epigrammatic  or  paradoxical.  This  was,  of 
course,  the  device  employed  by  Bacon  and  somewhat  frequently  by 
essayists  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  Hazlitt's  work 
showed  other  occasional  resemblances  to  the  "  character  "  and  to  the 
papers  in  the  Tatler,  but  the  indebtedness,  even  in  his  earliest  essays, 
was  actually  very  slight  —  Hazlitt  was  a  thoroughgoing  individualist, 
who  never  willingly  conformed  to  any  convention,  literary  or  social. 

Next  to  Lamb,  Hunt,  and  Hazlitt,  probably  John  Wilson  (''Chris- 
topher North.")  and  Thomas  De  Quincey  were  most  influential  in  the 
John  Wilson  establishment  of  the  new  type  of  familiar  essay.  \\'ilson 
(1785-1854)  joined  the  staff  of  BlackiimocT s  with  the  number  for 
October,  18 17,  and  soon  became  the  most  important  contributor 
to  that  magazine.  The  Nodes  Amlr/vsiance,  which  for  the  most  part 
were  written  by  him  and  by  which  his  reputation  was  chiefly  estab- 
lished, were  a  series  of  dialogues  constituting  a  symposium  upon  the 
topics  of  the  day,  and  cannot  strictly  be  classed  as  familiar  essays ; 
but  they  possessed  many  of  the  features  of  the  essay,  and  their 
popularity  encouraged  indirectly  the  cultivation  of  the  type.  In 
addition  \Mlson  wrote  for  BlackwoocT s  a  number  of  papers  after  the 
general  pattern  that  was  being  set  by  Lamb  and  Hazlitt. 

De  Quincey's  first  essay  was  the  "  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 
Eater,"  published  in  the  London  Magazine  for  September  and  October, 
182  I.  It  commanded  immediate  and  lasting  popularity.  In  the  suc- 
ceeding thirty  years  De  Quincey  wrote  for  a  number  of  magazines, 


liv  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

particularly  Black-icooifs  and  Taifs ;  for  the  former,  the  "  Suspiria  de 
Profundis  "  (1845)  '^'^'^'^  "The  English  Mail  Coach"  (1849);  for  the 
Thomas  De  '^^ter,  many  articles  presenting  sections  of  his  autobiog- 
Quincey  raphy  and  reminiscences  of  his  literary  friends  and  ac- 

(1705-1859)  quaintances.^  Most  of  the  essays  proper,  such  as  the 
"  Suspiria  "  and  the  "  Confessions,"  were  largely  dream  phantasma- 
goria, the  real  or  feigned  result  of  De  Quincey's  consumption  of 
opium.  They  were  characterized  by  their  extreme  length  and  discur- 
siveness, and  in  many  passages  by  a  dignity  of  cadence  and  subtlety 
of  rhythm  hardly  before  attempted  in  English  prose. 

Though  it  is  as  a  novelist  that  Dickens  holds  his  place  in  literary 
history,  yet  it  was  as  an  essayist  that  he  first  attracted  notice.  .  His 
Charles  earliest    departure    from    mere    journalism    was    in    the 

Dickens  Skcii'/u's  by  Boz,  the  first  of  which  was  published  in  the 

(1812-1870)  Monthly  Alagazine  for  December,  1833,  and  others  in 
the  Monthly  and  in  the  Evening  Chronicle  during  the  next  two  years. 
Some  of  these  sketches,  particularly  portrayals  of  characters,  were 
apparently  written  under  the  influence  of  Leigh  Hunt.  A  quarter  of 
a  centuiy  later  Dickens  began  a  new  series  of  essays  and  sketches, 
first  collected  in  the  L  ^Jicoinnicrcial  Traveller  and  issued  in  December, 
1S60.*    To  this  collection  additions  were  made  in  1868  and  1869. 

But  the  chief  figure  among  the  essayists  of  the  mid-century  was 

Thackeray.    A  number  of  his  contributions  to  PiineJi  between  1846 

and  1 8  CO  —  the.  Snobs  of  England  (\S±G-i?>a^'),  Travels 
William  ■       r        7        /  ■. 

Makepeace      ^'^  London  (1847-1848),  and  Mr.  Brown's  Letters  to  a 

Thackeray       Young  Man  about  Tow7i  (1849)  —  presented  most  of  the 

(181I-1863)  ,  r     .1  r  •!•  r  ^  ^-rr       ■ 

features  of  the  laminar  essay,  frequently  differmg  from 
the  type  only  in  the  excessive  heightening  of  burlesque  or  satirical 
tone;  and  The  Looser  (1850)  was  really  a  series  of  familiar  essays. 

^  Although  the  contributions  to  Tail's  Magazine,  in  their  content  and  in  their 
intimate,  almost  gossiping  style,  are  nearly  related  to  the  famiHar  essay,  yet,  as 
De  Quincey  published  them  they  are  more  accurately  to  be  classified  as 
magazine  articles  than  as  essays. 

^  The.  inference  seems  warranted  that  the  Unco7}irnercial  Traveller  was 
written  in  some  measure  to  compete  with  Thackeray's  Koiuulaboiit  Papers  in 
the  Cornhill,  the  initial  number  of  which  had  appeared  but  a  few  weeks  before 
the  first  of  the  sketches  by  the  Uncommercial  Traveller.  The  competition  did 
not  last  long,  however,  as  the  series  began  January  28,  i860,  and  was  concluded 
October  13  of  the  same  year. 


INTRODUCTION  Iv 

They  were  written  in  the  character  of  Dr.  Solomon  Pacifico,  an  "  old 
Fogey  "  of  kindly  heart  and  much  experience  of  the  world  and  a  very 
close  relative  of  the  later  moralist  of  the  Roundabout  Papers.  It  is, 
however,  to  the  Roundabout  Papers  in  the  CornJiill  Magazine  that 
Thackeray  owes  his  place  in  the  small  group  of  writers  who  have 
given  to  the  familiar  essay  in  England  its  charm  and  distinction. 
When  the  Cornhill  began  publication  in  January,  i860,  Thackeray 
was  its  editor,  and  he  continued  in  this  position  until  after  the  number 
for  March,  1862.  Then  ill  health  and  the  irritating  urgency  of  his 
editorial  duties  caused  his  resignation,  though  he  remained  a  con- 
tributor to  the  magazine  until  his  death,  December  24,  1863.  The 
first  of  the  Roundabout  Papers  appeared  in  the  initial  number  of 
the  Cornhill,  the  last  in  the  issue  for  November,  1863.  'l"he  total 
numDCx-  of  essays  included  in  the  series  is  thirty-four,  though  six  of 
them  did  not  appear  under  this  heading  when  they  were  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Cornhill. 

The  various  single  Roundabout  Papers  rambled  in  such  a  pleasantly 
discursive  fashion  that  they  do  not  readily  submit  to  any  definite 
classification  based  on  the  subjects  treated.  A  few  were  dream  phan- 
tasmagoria ;  several  were  inspired  by  events  or  situations  of  contem- 
poraneous interest ;  a  goodly  number  were  largely  autobiographical  or 
reminiscential,  concerned  particularly  with  Thackeray's  boyhood,  with 
his  reading,  and  with  his  editorial  trials  and  triumphs ;  but  by  far  the 
largest  part  of  the  whole  body  consisted  of  reflections — -humorous, 
satirical,  sympathetic  —  based  upon  the  writer's  observation  of  human 
life  and  conduct  and  character.  Indeed,  in  nearly  every  essay,  what- 
ever the  professed  subject,  there  were  almost  sure  to  be  shrewd 
thrusts  at  sham  and  disingenupusness,  or  whole-hearted  attacks  upon 
baseness  and  meanness  hidden  behind  respectability,  or  the  sympa- 
thetic consideration  of  human  weakness,  or  grateful  appreciation  of 
such  simple  virtues  as  manly  strength  and  honor  and  womanly  purity 
and  charity.  In  Thackeray's  consideration  of  the  human  comedy,  his 
point  of  view  was  the  same  as  in  his  novels,  particularly  the  later 
ones  —  that  of  a  member  of  the  upper  ranks  of  society,  a  man  of 
breeding  and  position  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  whose  experience 
had  made  him  thoroughly  cognizant  of  human  frailty  but  had  also 
mellowed  him  to  a  kindly  tolerance.  The  audience  to  whom  he  espe- 
cially directed  himself  were  men  of  his  own  station  and  the  members 


Ivi  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

of  their  families ;  his  sympathy  embraced  servants  and  workhouse 
inmates,  but  his  attitude  toward  them  was  that  of  the  considerate 
master  and  the  genuinely  charitable  gentleman. 

In  the  essayist's  point  of  view,  in  the  audience  particularly  addressed, 
and  in  the  generally  prevalent  tone  of  social  satire  the  Roiuidabout 
Papers  were  strongly  suggestive  of  the  eighteenth  century.  A  further 
resemblance  in  detail  appeared  in  the  frequent  use  of  illustrative 
characters  with  descriptive  or  suggestive  names.  But  the  differences 
were  even  more  noteworthy  than  the  resemblances.  Unlike  the 
eighteenth-century  essayists  Thackeray  as  a  social  satirist  was  con- 
cerned not  with  externals  of  taste  and  dress  and  manners,  but  with 
character  and  its  expression  in  conduct.  Further,  in  their  greater 
length,  in  their  discursiveness,  and  in  their  intimate  revelations  of 
personality,  his  essays  were  closely  related  to  those  of  Montaigne  and 
Lamb  and  Hazlitt.    Montaigne  was  Thackeray's  "  bedtime  book." 

The  Roundabout  Papers  owed  almost  as  much  of  their  attractive- 
ness to  their  style  as  to  the  personality  of  the  writer.  They  possessed 
the  greatest  charm  of  familiar  writing  —  conversational  ease  that 
does  not  lack  vigor  or  suppleness  and  still  does  not  degenerate 
into  vulgarity. 

Dr.  John  Brown,  an  active  physician  of  Edinburgh  and  a  valued 
friend  of  Thackeray's,  occupies  a  small  but  significant  position  as 
Dr  John  essayist,  chiefly  by  reason  of  his  sketches  of  dog  life  and 
Brown  character.    "  Rab  and  his  Friends,"  the  best  known  of  his 

(1810-18  2)  ^YQj-i^s^  -^,^13  as  much  story  as  essay  and  claimed  interest 
as  much  for  its  human  figures  as  for  its  canine  hero  ;  but  certain  other 
very  attractive  papers  were  simply  studies  of  the  personality  of  dog 
companions  by  one  who  loved  and  understood  them.  Dr.  Brown's 
essays  also  included  some  delightfully  fresh  out-of-door  pieces,  such 
as  "  Minchmoor "  and  "  The  Enterkin "  which  in  many  respects 
anticipated  the  travel  essays  of  Stevenson.  His  writings,  of  which 
only  a  part  are  properly  familiar  essays,  were  first  collected  in  the 
three  volumes  of  Horce  Subsecivce,  published  in  1858,  1861,  and 
1882,  respectively. 

Of  the  later  nineteenth-century  essayists  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
a  fellow  townsman  of  Dr.  Brown's,  was  the  most  conspicuous  —  nota- 
ble for  the  character  of  his  own  work  and  for  the  stimulus  he  gave 
both  to  the  writing  and  to  the  reading  of  essays.     Stevenson  first 


INTRODUCTION  Ivii 

appeared  in  print  in  a  half-dozen  papers  written  for  tlie  Ediiihur^h 
University  Magazine  {}z.\-\WAxy-\^x^,  187  i).  After  the  demise  of  this 
Robert  Louis  publication  he  practiced  his  art  assiduously,  but  for  some 
Stevenson  two  and  a  half  years  he  published  nothing.  Then,  in 
(1S50-1894)  r)ecember,  1873,  an  article  of  his  entitled  "  Roads,"  which 
had  been  rejected  by  the  Saturday  Review,  appeared  in  the  Portfolio. 
In  May,  1S74,  he  contributed  "Ordered  South"  to  Maanitlan's 
Magazi7ie,  and  in  the  same  year,  through  the  discernment  of  Mr. 
Leslie  Stephen,  the  editor  of  the  CorfihiH,  his  work  was  admitted  to 
the  pages  of  that  magazine.  From  1876  through  1882  the  CornJiill 
was  by  far  liis  most  important  medium  of  publication  ;  after  the  latter 
year  his  writings  appeared  more  at  large.  The  most  important  body 
of  essays  of  his  later  life  was  written  for  Scribnet^s  Magazine,  one 
paper  appearing  each  month  throughout  1888.  In  the  summer  of 
that  year  Stevenson  sailed  on  his  first  voyage  to  the  South  Seas. 
Thereafter  his  voyages,  tlie  setting  up  of  his  establishment  in  Samoa 
and  his  interest  in  Samoan  public  affairs,  letter  writing,  and  absorp- 
tion in  fiction  consumed  his  energies,  and  he  published  no  essays. 

Several  small  volumes  of  Stevenson's  essays  were  collected  and 
published  before  his  death  in  1894.  The  earliest  of  these,  Mrginihiis 
Puerisque  (1881),  contained  fourteen,  papers  ;  Memories  and  Portraits 
(1887),  sixteen  ;  and  Across  the  Plains  (1892),  twelve.  All  but  three 
or  four  of  the  essays  contained  in  these  volumes  had  been  printed 
previously  in  various  periodicals.  Even  before  VirginH)iis  Pueris- 
que two  other  slender  volumes  had  appeared  :  An  Inland  Voyage 
(^1878) — Stevenson's  first  book  —  and  Travels  with  a  Donkey 
(1879).  The  titles  suggest  narratives,  but  these  little  books  were 
really  series, of  travel  essays,  almost  any  one  of  which  could  be 
enjoyed  separately,  though  the  papers  composing  each  volume  were 
bound  together  by  a  slender  thread  of  narrative.  Familiar  Studies  of 
Men  and  Books  (1882),  despite  its  title,  can  hardly  be  considered  a 
collection  of  familiar  essays ;  it  is  rather  a  group  of  critical  articles. 
For  some  years  preceding  Stevenson's  death  his  essays  were  more 
widely  read  than  were  those  of  any  one  of  his  contemporaries  ;  never- 
theless, no  full  collection  of  them  was  issued  before  the  publication 
of  the  first  complete  edition  of  his  works  in  1895. 

Stevenson's  essays  presented  chiefly  four  kinds  of  material :  travel 
impressions,  autobiography  and  reminiscence,  moral  and  philosophical 


Iviii  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

ideas,  and  a  writer's  interest  in  his  craft.  Probably  Stevenson's  most 
characteristic  work  was  his  development  of  the  travel  essay,  the  cul- 
tivation of  this  particular  variety  being  the  natural  consequence  of  the 
nomadic  habits  which  his  search  for  health  and  his  innate  fondness 
for  wandering  confirmed  in  him.  In  his  hands  the  travel  sketch 
became  not  merely  a  narrative  of  travel  or  a  description  of  places 
visited  and  objects  and  persons  observed ;  it  was  both  narrative  and 
description,  combined  with  recollections,  comments,  reflections,  and 
all  interpenetrated  by  his  personality. 

The  title  Memories  and  J^o/iraifs  indicates  the  character  of  a  con- 
siderable number  of  Stevenson's  essays  other  than  those  included  in 
the  volume  to  which  it  was  affixed.  'I'he  portraits  ranged  from  those 
of  beggars,  the  family  gardener,  and  an  old  shepherd,  to  the  friends 
of  Stevenson's  youth  and  the  members  of  his  own  family.  The 
memories  were  largely  of  his  childhood  and  young  manhood  —  and 
naturally  so,  as  he  had  scarcely  reached  middle  age  when  his  last 
essay  was  written.  The  most  highly  individual  papers  of  this  kind 
were  those  in  which  Stevenson  recalled  his  very  early  sensations  and 
impressions,  and  interpreted  the  actions  and  emotions  of  childhood 
in  \ery  much  the  same  sympathetic  spirit  as  in  his  C/iild's  Garden 
of  I  'erse. 

The  essays  in  which  were  embodied  Stevenson's  ethical  and  phil- 
osophical ideas  varied  in  content  from  an  appreciation  of  wisely  spent 
idleness  or  a  study  of  the  comic  incongruities  incident  upon  falling 
in  love,  to  a  resolute,  almost  stoical  facing  of  man's  ultimate  fate. 
They  manifested  his  conviction  that  life  is  well  worth  the  living  and 
that  this  world  is  a  very  good  place  in  which  to  live  it,  his  admiration 
for  the  active  and  unafraid,  and  his  remoteness  from  that  spirit  which 
is  actuated  to  well-doing  merely  by  the  hope  of  bread-and-butter  suc- 
cess in  this  world  or  by  a  promised  reward  of  immortality  in  another. 
Almost  everywhere  in  Stevenson's  essays  the  moralist  appeared  ;  ^ 
not  as  the  righteous  Pharisee  or  the  self-constituted  reformer  of 
society,  but  as  an  observer  and  thinker  thoroughly  human  and  richly 
endowed  with  a  sense  of  humor. 

Besides  the  distinctly  critical  articles  a  number  of  Stevenson's 
essays  showed  his  interest  in  the  craft  of  letters.    These  exhibited  his 

''  In  "  Talk  and  Talkers  "  Stevenson  declared  that  "  you  can  keep  no  man 
long,  nor  Scotchman  at  all,  off  moral  or  theological  discussion." 


INTRODUCTION  lix 

contempt  for  slovenl\-  and  dishonest  writing,  and  insisted  upon  the 
blindness  of  the  note-taking  realists  who  transcribe  the  bare  apparent 
facts  and  ignore  the  poetry  and  romance  of  life.  They  also  recounted 
his  own  efforts  to  learn  to  write  and  his  unwearied  pursuit  of  style. 
For  no  writer  of  English  has  been  more  consciously  a  stylist,  or  has 
considered  more  nicely  the  effects  he  aimed  to  produce.  In  the  choice 
of  word  and  phrase,  as  in  the  attitude  toward  his  subject,  he  carried 
almost  to  the  extreme  what  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  has  characterized  as 
a  "  hatred  for  the  commonplace  formula."  His  style  was  fluid,  alwa\-s 
in  process  of  change,  but  there  was  a  fairly  consistent  difference  be- 
tween that  of  his  earlier  and  of  his  later  essays.  The  earlier  papers, 
those  in  the  Virginibus  Fuerisqice  collection,  for  example,  were  the 
more  mannered  —  Stevenson  himself  declared  that  they  were  written 
in  a  "  neat,  brisk  little  style  "  ;  the  later,  including  most  of  the  essays 
collected  in  Across  the  Plains,  were  less  affected,  less  jaunty.  \\'hile 
they  were  being  written  and  afterwards,  Stevenson  was  practicing 
what  he  called  a  "  bald  "  style.  He  has  named  the  models  whom  he 
chose  to  follow.'^  Significantly  enough,  the  eighteenth-century  essay- 
ists are  not  included  in  the  list ;  and  equally  significant  is  a  statement 
of  his  that  he  "  could  never  read  a  word "  of  Addison.  But  of 
Montaigne  and  of  Hazlitt  —  who  of  all  the  English  essayists  most 
resembles  Montaigne- — he  was  an  eager  and  admiring  student. 
And  his  relationship  to  these  two  was  much  closer  than  that  of 
style  in    any  narrowly  restricted   sense  of  the  term. 

With  Stevenson  the  tale  of  the  greater  essayists  of  the  nineteenth 
century  is  ended,  and  thus  far  in  the  twentieth  centun,-  no  one  has 
The  essay  appeared  to  match  him  in  charm  and  distinction.  As, 
to-day  moreover,  no  really  important  modification  of  the  char- 

acter of  the  familiar  essay  has  occurred  since  his  death,  this  sketch 
of  the  development  of  the  type  may  well  be  concluded  with  the 
account  of  his  work.    But  Stevenson  is  by  no  means  the  last  of  the 


^  In  "  A  College  Magazine  "  Stevenson  wrote  of  having  "  played  the  sedulous 
ape  to  Hazlitt,  to  Lamb,  to  Wordsworth,  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  to  Defoe,  to 
Hawthorne,  to  Montaigne,  to  Baudelaire,  and  to  Obermann."  And  in  a  note 
book  of  1871-1872  is  a  Catalogiis  Librorittn  Carissiniorum,  at  the  head  of  which 
is  Montaigne's  Essays,  followed  at  a  little  distance  by  Hazlitt's  Tal'le  Talk. 
The  reader  of  this  present  collection  may  observe  in  "  Walking  Tours " 
Stevenson's  enthusiasm  for  Hazlitt. 


Ix  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

English  essayists ;  to-day  Chesterton  and  Benson  and  Galsworthy 
are  notable  names.  And  despite  the  popularity  of  the  short  story, 
which  during  the  last  twenty-five  years  has  come  more  and  more 
to  occupy  the  magazines,  the  essay  holds  its  place  secure,  and 
promises  to  continue  to  give  pleasant  half  hours  to  the  thoughtful 
and  unhurried  reader. 


THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 


MICHEL   DE   MONTAIGNE  (1533-1592) 

THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER 

(1580) 

Reader,  lo  here  a  well-meaning  book.  It  doth  at  the  first 
entrance  forewarn  thee  that  in  contriving  the  same  I  have 
proposed  unto  myself  no  other  than  a  familiar  and  private 
end  :  I  have  no  respect  or  consideration  at  all  either  to  thy 
service  or  to  my  glory ;  my  forces  are  not  capable  of  an}^ 
such  design.  I  have  vowed  the  same  to  the  particular  com- 
modity of  my  kinsfolks  and  friends  ;  to  the  end  that  losing 
me  (which  they  are  likely  to  do  ere  long)  they  may  therein 
find  some  lineaments  of  my  conditions  and  humours,  and  by 
that  means  reserve  more  whole  and  more  lively  foster  tlie 
knowledge  and  acquaintance  they  have  had  of  me.  Had  my 
intention  been  to  forestall  and  purchase  the  world's  opinion 
and  favour,  I  would  surely  have  adorned  myself  more  quaintl}', 
or  kept  a  more  grave  and  solemn  march.  I  desire  therein 
to  be  delineated  in  mine  own  genuine,  simple,  and  ordinary 
fashion,  without  contention,  art,  or  study  ;  for  it  is  myself  I 
portray.  My  imperfections  shall  therein  be  read  to  the  life, 
and  my  natural  form  discerned,  so  far  forth  as  public  reverence 
hath  permitted  me.  For  if  my  fortune  had  been  to  have  lived- 
among  those  nations  which  yet  are  said  to  live  under  the 
sweet  liberty  of  Nature's  first  and  uncorrupted  laws,  I  assure 
thee  I  would  most  willingly  have  portrayed  myself  fully  and 
naked.  Thus,  gentle  Reader,  myself  am  the  groundwork  of 
my  book.  It  is  then  no  reason  thou  shouldest  employ  thy 
time  about  so  frivolous  and  vain  a  subject.  Therefore  farewell. 
P^rom  Montaigne,  the  first  of  March  1580. 


2  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR   ESSAY 

OF   SORROW 

(1580) 

No  man  living  is  more  free  from  this  passion  than  I,  who 
yet  neither  hke  it  in  myself  nor  admire  it  in  others,  and  yet 
generally  the  world,  as  a  settled  thing,  is  pleased  to  grace  it 
with  a  particular  esteem,  clothing  therewith  wisdom,  virtue, 
and  conscience.  Foolish  and  sordid  guise  !  The  Italians  have 
more  fitly  baptized  by  this  name  malignity  ;  for  'tis  a  quality 
always  hurtful,  always  idle  and  vain  ;  and  as  being  cowardly, 
mean,  and  base,  it  is  by  the  Stoics  expressly  and  particularly 
forbidden  to  their  sages. 

But  the  story  says  that  Psammitichus,  King  of  Egypt,  being 
defeated  and  taken  prisoner  by  Cambyses,  King  of  Persia, 
seeing  his  own  daughter  pass  by  him  as  prisoner,  and  in  a 
wretched  habit,  with  a  bucket  to  draw  water,  though  his  friends 
about  him  were  so  concerned  as  to  break  out  into  tears  and 
lamentations,  yet  he  himself  remained  unmoved,  without  utter- 
ing a  word,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground ;  and  seeing, 
moreover,  his  son  immediately  after  led  to  execution,  still 
maintained  the  same  countenance ;  till  spying  at  last  one  of 
his  domestic  and  familiar  friends  dragged  away  amongst  the 
captives,  he  fell  to  tearing  his  hair  and  beating  his  breast, 
with  all  the  other  extravagances  of  extreme  sorrow, 

A  story  that  may  very  fitly  be  coupled  with  another  of  the 
same  kind,  of  recent  date,  of  a  prince  of  our  own  nation, 
who  being  at  Trent,  and  having  news  there  brought  him  of 
.the  death  of  his  elder  brother,  a  brother  on  whom  depended 
the  whole  support  and  honour  of  his  house,  and  soon  after  of 
that  of  a  younger  brother,  the  second  hope  of  his  family,  and 
having  withstood  these  two  assaults  with  an  exemplary  resolu- 
tion ;  one  of  his  servants  happening  a  few  days  after  to  die, 
he  suffered  his  constancy  to  be  overcome  by  this  last  accident ; 
and,  parting  with  his  courage,  so  abandoned  himself  to  sorrow 
and  mourning,  that  some  thence  were  forward  to  conclude  that 
he  was  only  touched  to  the  c[uick  by  this  last  stroke  of  fortune ; 


MICHEL  I)E  MONTAIGNE  3 

but,  in  truth,  it  was,  that  being  before  brimful  of  grief,  the 
least  addition  overflowed  the  JDOunds  of  all  patience.  Which, 
I  think,  might  also  be  said  of  the  former  example,  did  not 
the  story  proceed  to  tell  us  that  Cambyses  asking  Psammiti- 
chus,  "Why,  not  being  moved  at  the  calamity  of  his  son  and 
daughter,  he  should  v>'ith  so  great  impatience  bear  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  friend  ?  "  "  It  is,"  answered  he,  "because  only 
this  last  affliction  was  to  be  manifested  by  tears,  the  two  first 
far  exceeding  all  manner  of  expression." 

And,  peradventure,  something  like  this  might  be  working 
in  the  fancy  of  the  ancient  painter,  who  having,  in  the  sacri- 
fice of  Iphigenia,  to  represent  the  sorrow  of  the  assistants 
proportionably  to  the  several  degrees  of  interest  every  one 
had  in  the  death  of  this  fair  innocent  virgin,  and  having,  in 
the  other  figures,  laid  out  the  utmost  power  of  his  art,  when 
he  came  to  that  of  her  father,  he  drew  him  u'ith  a  veil  over 
his  face,  meaning  thereby  that  no  kind  of  countenance  was 
capable  of  expressing  such  a  degree  of  sorrow.  Which  is  also 
tlie  reason  why  the  poets  feign  the  miserable  mother,  Niobe, 
having  first  lost  seven  sons,  and  then  afterwards  as  many 
daughters  (overwhelmed  with  her  losses),  to.  be  at  last  trans- 
formed into  a  rock  — 

Diriguisse  malis, 

thereby  to  express  that  melancholic,  dumb,  and  deaf  stupefac- 
tion, which  benumbs  all  our  faculties,  when  oppressed  with 
accidents  greater  than  we  are  able  to  bear.  And,  indeed,  the 
violence  and  impression  of  an  excessive  grief  must  of  necessity 
astonish  the  soul,  and  wholly  deprive  her  of  her  ordinary  func- 
tions :  as  it  happens  to  every  one  of  us,  who,  upon  any  sudden 
alarm  of  very  ill  news,  find  ourselves  surprised,  stupefied,  and 
in  a  manner  deprived  of  all  power  of  motion,  so  that  the  soul, 
beginning  to  vent  itself  in  tears  and  lamentations,  seems  to 
free  and  disengage  itself  from  the  sudden  oppression,  and  to 
have  obtained  some  room  to  work  itself  out  at  greater  liberty. 

Et  via  vix  tandem  voci  laxata  dolore  est. 


4  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

In  the  war  that  Ferdinand  made  upon  tlie  widow  of  King 
John  of  Hungary,  about  Ikida,  a  man-at-arms  was  particularly 
taken  notice  of  by  every  one  for  his  singular  gallant  behaviour 
in  a  certain  encounter  ;  and,  unknown,  highly  commended,  and 
lamented,  being  left  dead  upon  the  place :  but  by  none  so 
much  as  by  Raisciac,  a  German  lord,  who  was  infinitely  enam- 
oured of  so  rare  a  valour.  The  body  being  brought  off,  and 
the  count,  with  the  common  curiosity  coming  to  view  it,  the 
armour  was  no  sooner  taken  off  but  he  immediately  knew  him 
to  be  his  own  son,  a  thing  that  added  a  second  blow  to  the 
compassion  of  all  the  beholders  ;  only  he,  without  uttering  a 
word,  or  turning  away  his  eyes  from  the  woeful  object,  stood 
fixedly  contemplating  the  body  of  his  son,  till  the  vehemency 
of  sorrow  having  overcome  his  vital  spirits,  made  him  sink 
down  stone-dead  to  the  ground.  — 

Chi  puo  dir  com'  egli  arde,  e  in  picciol  fuoco, 

say  the   Innamoratos,   when   they  would   represent  an   insup- 
portable passion  :  — 

Miscro  quod  omneis 
Eripit  sensus  mihi :  nam  simul  te, 
Lesbia,  aspexi,  nihil  est  super  mi, 

Quod  loquar  amcns. 
Lingua  sed  torpet :    tenuis  sub  artus 
Flamma  dimanat ;   sonitu  suopte 
Tintinant  aures  ;  gemina  teguntur 
Lumina  nocte. 

Neither  is  it  in  the  height  and  greatest  fury  of  the  fit  that 
we  are  in  a  condition  to  pour  out  our  complaints  or  our  amorous 
persuasions,  the  soul  being  at  that  time  over-burdened,  and  labour- 
ing with  profound  thoughts  ;  and  the  body  dejected  and  languish- 
ing with  desire  ;  and  thence  it  is  that  sometimes  proceed  those 
accidental  impotencies  that  so  unseasonably  surprise  the  lover, 
and  that  frigidity  which  by  the  force  of  an  immoderate  ardour 
seizes  him  even  in  the  very  lap  of  fruition.  For  all  passions  that 
suffer  themselves  to  be  relished  and  digested  are  but  moderate :  — 
Curas  leves  loquuntur,  ingentes  stupent. 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  5 

A  surprise  of  unexpected  joy  does  likewise  often  produce 
the  same  effect :  — 

Ut  me  conspcxit  venientem,  et  Troja  circum 
Arma  amens  vidit,  magnis  exterrita  monstris, 
Diriguit  visu  in  medio,  calor  ossa  reliquit, 
Labitur,  et  longo  vix  tandem  tempore  fatur. 

Besides  the  examples  of  the  Roman  lady,  who  died  for  joy 
to  see  her  son  safe  returned  from  the  defeat  of  Cannae  ;  and 
of  Sophocles  and  of  Dionysius  the  Tyrant,  who  died  of  joy  ; 
and  of  Thalna,  who  died  in  Corsica,  reading  news  of  the 
honours  the  Roman  Senate  had  decreed  in  his  favour,  we 
have,  moreover,  one  in  our  time,  of  Pope  Leo  X,  who,  upon 
news  of  the  taking  of  Milan,  a  thing  he  had  so  ardently  de- 
sired, was  rapt  with  so  sudden  an  excess  of  joy  that  he  imme- 
diately fell  into  a  fever  and  died.  And  for  a  more  notable 
testimony  of  the  imbecility  of  human  nature,  it  is  recorded  by 
the  ancients  that  Diodorus  the  dialectician  died  upon  the  spot, 
out  of  an  extreme  passion  of  shame,  for  not  having  been  able 
in  his  own  school,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  great  auditory,  to 
disengage  himself  from  a  nice  argument  that  was  propounded 
to  him.  I,  for  my  part,  am  very  little  subject  to  these  violent 
passions ;  I  am  naturally  of  a  stubborn  apprehension,  which 
also,  by  reasoning,   I  every  day  harden  and  fortify. 


OF  REPENTANCE 

(15.SS) 

Others  form  man  ;  I  only  report  him  :  and  represent  a  par- 
ticular one,  ill  fashioned  enough,  and  whom,  if  I  had  to  model 
him  anew,  I  should  certainly  make  something  else  than  what 
he  is  :  but  that 's  past  recalling.  Now,  though  the  features  of 
my  picture  alter  and  change,  't  is  not,  however,  unlike  :  the 
world  eternally  turns  round  ;  all  things  therein  are  incessantly 
moving,  the  earth,  the  rocks  of  Caucasus,  and  the  pyramids 
of  Eg)^pt,  both  by  tlie  public  motion  and   their  own.     Even 


6  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

constancy  itself  is  no  other  but  a  slower  and  more  languishing 
motion.  I  cannot  fix  my  object ;  't  is  always  tottering  and  reel- 
ing by  a  natural  giddiness  ;  I  take  it  as  it  is  at  the  instant  I 
consider  it ;  I  do  not  paint  its  being,  I  paint  its  passage  ;  not 
a  passing  from  one  age  to  another,  or,  as  the  people  say,  from 
seven  to  seven  years,  but  from  day  to  day,  from  minute  to 
minute.  I  must  accommodate  my  history  to  the  hour  :  I  may 
presently  change,  not  only  by  fortune,  but  also  by  intention. 
'T  is  a  counterpart  of  various  and  changeable  accidents,  and 
of  irresolute  imaginations,  and,  as  it  falls  out,  sometimes  con- 
trary :  whether  it  be  that  I  am  then  another  self,  or  that  I 
take  subjects  by  other  circumstances  and  considerations  :  so  it 
is,  that  I  may  peradventure  contradict  myself,  but,  as  Demades 
said,  I  never  contradict  the  truth.  Could  my  soul  once  take 
footing,  I  would  not  essay  but  resolve :  but  it  is  always  learning 
and  making  trial. 

I  propose  a  life  ordinaiy  and  without  lustre  :  't  is  all  one ; 
all  moral  philosophy  may  as  well  be  applied  to  a  common  and 
private  life,  as  to  one  of  richer  composition  :  every  man  carries 
the  entire  form  of  human  condition.  Authors  communicate 
themselves  to  the  people  by  some  especial  and  extrinsic  mark; 
I,  the  first  of  any,  by  my  universal  being ;  as  Michel  de  Mon- 
taigne, not  as  a  grammarian,  a  poet,  or  a  law\'er.  If  the  world 
find  fault  that  I  speak  too  much  of  myself,  I  find  fault  that 
they  do  not  so  much  as  think  of  themselves.  But  is  it  reason 
that,  being  so  particular  in  my  way  of  living,  I  should  pretend 
to  recommend  myself  to  the  public  knowledge  .-*  And  is  it 
also  reason  that  I  should  produce  to  the  world,  where  art  and 
handling  have  so  much  credit  and  authority,  crude  and  simple 
effects  of  nature,  and  of  a  weak  nature  to  boot .''  Is  it  not  to 
build  a  wall  without  stone  or  brick,  or  some  such  thing,  to 
write  books  without  learning  and  without  art .''  The  fancies 
of  music  are  carried  on  by  art ;  mine  by  chance.  I  have  this, 
at  least,  according  to  discipline,  that  never  any  man  treated  of 
a  subject  he  better  understood  and  knew  than  I  what  I  have 
undertaken,  and  that  in  this  I  anr  the  most  understanding  man 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  7 

alive  :  secondly,  that  never  any  man  penetrated  farther  into 
his  matter,  nor  better  and  more  distinctly  sifted  the  parts  and 
sequences  of  it,  nor  ever  more  exactly  and  fully  arrived  at 
the  end  he  proposed  to  himself.  To  perfect  it,  I  need  bring 
nothing  but  fidelity  to  the  work  ;  and  that  is  there,  and  the 
most  pure  and  sincere  that  is  anywhere  to  be  found.  I  speak 
truth,  not  so  much  as  I  would,  but  as  much  as  I  dare  ;  and  I 
dare  a  little  the  more,  as  I  grow  older ;  for,  methinks,  custom 
allows  to  age  more  liberty  of  prating,  and  more  indiscretion  of 
talking  of  a  man's  self.  That  cannot  fall  out  here,  which  I 
often  see  elsewhere,  that  the  work  and  the  artificer  contradict 
one  another  :  "  Can  a  man  of  such  sober  conversation  have 
written  so  foolish  a  book  ?  "  Or  "  Do  so  learned  writings  pro- 
ceed from  a  man  of  so  weak  conversation  ?  "  He  who  talks  at 
a  very  ordinary  rate,  and  writes  rare  matter,  't  is  to  say  that  his 
capacity  is  borrowed  and  not  his  own.  A  learned  man  is  not 
learned  in  all  things  :  but  a  sufficient  man  is  sufficient  through- 
out, even  to  ignorance  itself ;  here  my  book  and  I  go  hand  in 
hand  together.  Elsewhere  men  may  commend  or  censure  the 
work,  without  reference  to  the  workman  ;  here  they  cannot : 
who  touches  the  one,  touches  the  other.  He  w^ho  shall  judge 
of  it  without  knowing  him,  will  more  wrong  himself  than  me  ; 
he  who  does  know  him,  gives  me  all  the  satisfaction  I^  desire. 
I  shall  be  happy  beyond  my  desert,  if  I  can  obtain  only  thus 
much  from  the  public  approbation,  as  to  make  men  of  under- 
standing perceive  that  I  was  capable  of  profiting  by  knowledge, 
had  I  had  it ;  and  that  I  deser\'ed  to  have  been  assisted  by  a 
better  memory. 

Be  pleased  here  to  excuse  what  I  often  repeat,  that  I  very 
rarely  repent,  and  that  my  conscience  is  satisfied  with  itself, 
not  as  the  conscience  of  an  angel,  or  that  of  a  horse,  but  as 
the  conscience  of  a  man  ;  always  adding  this  clause,  not  one 
of  ceremony,  but  a  true  and  real  submission,  that  I  speak  in- 
quiring and  doubting,  purely  and  simply  referring  myself  to 
the  common  and  accepted  beliefs  for  the  resolution.  I  do 
not  teach,   I   only  relate. 


8  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

There  is  no  vice  that  is  absolutely  a  vice  which  does  not 
offend,  and  that  a  sound  judgment  does  not  accuse  ;  for  there 
is  in  it  so  manifest  a  deformity  and  inconvenience,  that  perad- 
venture  they  are  in  the  right  who  say  that  it  is  chiefly  begotten 
by  stupidity  and  ignorance  :  so  hard  is  it  to  imagine  that  a  man 
can  know  without  abhorring  it.  Malice  sucks  up  the  greatest 
part  of  its  own  venom,  and  poisons  itself.  Vice  leaves  repent- 
ance in  the  soul,  like  an  ulcer  in  the  flesh,  which  is  always 
scratching  and  lacerating  itself  :  for  reason  effaces  all  other 
grief  and  sorrows,  but  it  begets  that  of  repentance,  which  is. 
so  much  the  more  grievous,  by  reason  it  springs  within,  as  the 
cold  and  heat  of  fevers  are  more  sharp  than  those  that  only 
strike  upon  the  outward  skin.  I  hold  for  vices  (but  every  one 
according  to  its  proportion),  not  only  those  which  reason  and 
nature  condemn,  but  those  also  which  the  opinion  of  men, 
though  false  and  erroneous,  have  made  such,  if  authorised  by 
law  and  custom. 

There  is  likewise  no  virtue  which  does  not  rejoice  a  well- 
descended  nature  :  there  is  a  kind  of,  I  know  not  what,  con- 
gratulation in  well-doing  that  gives  us  an  inward  satisfaction, 
and  a  generous  boldness  that  accompanies  a  good  conscience: 
a  soul  daringly  vicious  may,  peradventure,  arm  itself  with 
security^  but  it  cannot  supply  itself  with  this  complacency  and 
satisfaction.  'T  is  no  little  satisfaction  to  feel  a  man's  self  pre- 
served from  the  contagion  of  so  depraved  an  age,  and  to  say 
to  himself  :  "  Whoever  could  penetrate  into  my  soul  would  not 
tlicre  find  me  guilty  cither  of  the  affliction  or  ruin  of  any  one, 
or  of  revenge  or  envy,  or  any  offence  against  the  public  laws, 
or  of  innovation  or  disturbance,  or  failure  of  my  word  ;  and 
though  the  licence  of  the  time  permits  and  teaches  every  one 
so  to  do,  yet  have  I  not  plundered  any  Frenchman's  goods,  or 
taken  his  money,  and  have  lived  upon  what  is  my  own,  in  war 
as  well  as  in  peace  ;  neither  have  I  set  any  man  to  work  with- 
out paying  him  his  hire."  These  testimonies  of  a  good  con- 
science please,  and  this  natural  rejoicing  is  very  beneficial  to 
us,  and  the  only  reward  that  we  can  never  fail  of. 


MICHEL   1)E  MONTAIGNE  9 

To  ground  the  recompense  of  virtuous  actions  upon  the  ap- 
probation of  others  is  too  uncertain  and  unsafe  a  foundation, 
especially  in  so  corrupt  and  ignorant  an  age  as  this,  wherein 
the  good  opinion  of  the  vulgar  is  injurious  :  upon  whom  do 
you  rely  to  show  you  what  is  recommendable  ?  God  defend 
me  from  being  an  honest  man,  according  to  the  descriptions 
of  honour  I  daily  see  every  one  make  of  himself : 

Quae  fuerant  vitia,  mores  sunt. 

Some  of  my  friends  have  at  times  schooled  and  scolded  me 
with  great  sincerity  and  plainness,  either  of  their  own  volun- 
tary motion,  or  by  me  entreated  to  it  as  to  an  office,  whkh  to 
a  well-composed  soul  surpasses  not  only  in  utility,  but  in  kind- 
ness, all  other  offices  of  friendship  :  I  ha\e  always  received 
them  with  the  most  open  arms,  both  of  courtesy  and  acknowl- 
edgment;  but,  to  say  the  truth,  I  have  often  found  so  much 
false  measure,  both  in  their  reproaches  and  praises,  that  I  had 
not  done  much  amiss,  rather  to  have  done  ill,  than  to  have 
done  well  according  to  their  notions.  We,  who  live  private 
lives,  not  exposed  to  any  other  view  than  our  own,  ought 
chiefly  to  have  settled  a  pattern  within  ourselves  by  which  to 
try  our  actions  ;  and  according  to  that,  sometimes  to  encourage 
and  sometimes  to  correct  ourselves.  I  have  my  laws  and  my 
judicature  to  judge  of  myself,  and  apply  myself  more  to  these 
than  to  any  other  rules:  I  do,  indeed,  restrain  my  actions  ac- 
cording to  others  ;  but  extend  them  not  by  any  other  rule  than 
my  own.  You  yourself  only  know  if  you  are  cowardly  and 
cruel,  loyal  and  devout :  others  see  you  not,  and  only  guess  at 
you  by  uncertain  conjectures,  and  do  not  so  much  see  your 
nature  as  your  art ;  rely  not  therefore  upon  their  opinions, 
but  stick  to  your  own  : 

Tuo  tibi  judicio  est  utendum  .  .  .  '\''irtutis  ct  vitiorum  grave  ipsius 
conscientiae  pondus  est :    qua  sublata,  jaccnt  omnia. 

But  the  saying  that  repentance  immediately  follows  the  sin 
seems  not  to  have  respect  to  sin  in  its  high  estate,  which  is 


lO  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

lodged  in  us  as  in  its  own  proper  habitation.  One  may  disown 
and  retract  the  vices  that  surprise  us,  and  to  which  we  are  hur- 
ried by  passions  ;  but  those  which  by  a  long  habit  are  rooted 
in  a  strong  and  vigorous  will  are  not  subject  to  contradiction. 
Repentance  is  no  other  but  a  recanting  of  the  will  and  an 
opposition  to  our  fancies,  which  lead  us  which  way  they 
please.  It  makes  this  person  disown  his  former  virtue  and 
continency  :  — 

Quae  mens  est  hodie,  cur  eadem  non  puero  fuit  ? 
Vel  cur  his  animis  incolumes  non  redcunt  genae? 

'T  is  an  exact  life  that  maintains  itself  in  due  order  in  pri- 
vate. Every  one  may  juggle  his  part,  and  represent  an  honest 
man  upon  the  stage  :  but  within,  and  in  his  own  bosom,  where 
all  may  do  as  they  list,  where  all  is  concealed,  to  be  regular, 
—  there  's  the  point.  The  next  degree  is  to  be  so  in  his  house, 
and  in  his  ordinary  actions,  for  which  we  are  accountable  to 
none,  and  where  there  is  no  study  nor  artifice.  And  therefore 
Bias,  setting  forth  the  excellent  state  of  a  private  family,  says  : 
"  of  which  the  master  is  the  same  within,  by  his  own  virtue 
and  temper,  that  he  is  abroad,  for  fear  of  the  laws  and 'report 
of  men."  And  it  was  a  worthy  saying  of  Julius  Drusus,  to  the 
masons  who  offered  him,  for  three  thousand  crowns,  to  put  his 
house  in  such  a  posture  that  his  neighbours  should  no  longer 
have  the  same  inspection  into  it  as  before  ;  "  I  will  give  you," 
said  he,  "six  thousand  to  make  it  so  that  everybody  may  see 
into  every  room."  'T  is  honourably  recorded  of  Agesilaus,  that 
he  used  in  his  journeys  always  to  take  up  his  lodgings  in  tem- 
ples, to  the  end  that  the  people  and  the  gods  themselves  might 
pry  into  his  most  private  actions.  Such  a  one  has  been  a 
miracle  to  the  world,  in  whom  neither  his  wife  nor  servant  has 
ever  seen  anything  so  much  as  remarkable ;  few  men  have 
been  admired  by  their  own  domestics ;  no  one  was  ever  a 
prophet,  not  merely  in  his  own  house,  but  in  his  own  country, 
says  the  experience  of  histories  :  't  is  the  same  in  things  of 
nought,  and  in  this  low  example  the  image  of  a  greater  is  to 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  ir 

be  seen.  In  my  country  of  Gascony,  they  look  upon  it  as  a 
drollery  to  see  me  in  print ;  the  further  off  I  am  read  from 
my  own  home,  the  better  I  am  esteemed.  I  purchase  printers 
in  Guienne  ;  elsewhere  they  purchase  me.  Upon  this  it  is  that 
they  lay  their  foundation  who  conceal  themselves  present  and 
living",  to  obtain  a  name  when  they  are  dead  and  absent.  I 
had  rather  have  a  great  deal  less  in  hand,  and  do  not  expose 
myself  to  the  world  upon  any  other  account  than  my  present 
share  ;  when  I  leave  it  I  quit  the  rest.  See  this  functionary 
whom  the  people  escort  in  state,  with  wonder  and  applause,  to 
his  very  door  ;  he  puts  off  the  pageant  \\ith  his  robe,  and  falls 
so  much  the  lower  by  how  much  he  was  higher  exalted  :  in 
himself  within,  all  is  tumult  and  degraded.  And  though  all 
should  be  regular  there,  it  will  require  a  vivid  and  well-chosen 
judgment  to  perceive  it  in  these  low  and  private  actions  ;  to 
which  may  be  added,  that  order  is  a  dull,  sombre  virtue.  To 
enter  a  breach,  conduct  an  embassy,  govern  a  people,  are 
actions  of  renown  ;  to  reprehend,  laugh,  sell,  pay,  love,  hate, 
and  gently  and  justly  converse  with  a  man's  own  family  and 
with  himself  ;  not  to  relax,  not  to  give  a  man's  self  the  lie,  is 
more  rare  and  hard,  and  less  remarkable.  By  which  means, 
retired  lives,  whatever  is  said  to  the  contrary,  undergo  duties  of 
as  great  or  greater  difficulty  than  the  others  do  ;  and  private 
men,  says  Aristotle,  ser\'e  virtue  more  painfully  and  highly 
than  those  in  authority  do  :  we  prepare  ourselves  for  eminent 
occasions,  more  out  of  glor)-  than  conscience.  The  shortest 
way  to  arrive  at  glory,  would  be  to  do  that  for  conscience  which 
we  do  for  glory :  and  the  virtue  of  Alexander  appears  to  me 
of  much  less  vigour  in  his  great  theatre,  than  that  of  Socrates 
in  his  mean  and  obscure  employment.  I  can  easily  conceive 
Socrates  in  the  place  of  Alexander,  but  Alexander  in  that  of 
Socrates,  I  cannot.  Who  shall  ask  the  one  what  he  can  do, 
he  will  answer,  "  Subdue  the  world  :  "  and  who  shall  put  the 
same  question  to  the  other,  he  will  say,  "Carry  on  human  life 
conformably  with  its  natural  condition;"  a  much  more  general, 
weighty,  and  legitimate  science  than  the  other. 


12  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  virtue  of  the  soul  docs  not  consist  in  flying  high,  but 
in  walking  orderly ;  its  grandeur  does  not  exercise  itself  in 
grandeur,  but  in  mediocrity.  As  they  who  judge  and  try  us 
within,  make  no  great  account  of  the  lustre  of  our  public 
actions,  and  see  they  are  only  streaks  and  rays  of  clear  water 
springing  from  a  slimy  and  muddy  bottom  :  so,  likewise,  they 
who  judge  of  us  by  this  gallant  outward  appearance,  in  like 
manner  conclude  of  our  internal  constitution ;  and  cannot 
couple  common  faculties,  and  like  their  own,  with  the  other 
faculties  that  astonish  them,  and  are  so  far  out  of  their  sight. 
Therefore  it  is  that  we  give  such  savage  forms  to  demons  : 
and  who  does  not  give  Tamerlane  great  eyebrows,  wide  nos- 
trils, a  dreadful  visage,  and  a  prodigious  stature,  according  to 
the  imagination  he  has  conceived  by  the  report  of  his  name  ? 
Had  any  one  formerly  brought  me  to  Erasmus,  I  should 
hardly  have  believed  but  that  all  was  adage  and  apothegm 
he  spoke  to  his  man  or  his  hostess.  We  much  more  aptly 
imagine  an  artisan  upon  his  close-stool,  or  upon  his  wife, 
than  a  great  president  venerable  by  his  port  and  sufficiency : 
we  fancy  that  they,  from  their  high  tribunals,  will  not  abase 
themselves  so  much  as  to  live.  As  vicious  souls  are  often 
incited  by  some  foreign  impulse  to  do  well,  so  are  virtuous 
souls  to  do  ill ;  they  are  therefore  to  be  judged  by  their  settled 
state,  when  they  are  at  home,  whenever  that  may  be  ;  and, 
at  all  events,  when  they  are  nearer  repose,  and  in  their  native 
station. 

Natural  inclinations  are  much  assisted  and  fortified  by  edu- 
cation ;  but  they  seldom  alter  and  overcome  their  institution  : 
a  thousand  natures  of  my  time  have  escaped  towards  virtue 
or  vice,  through  a  quite  contrary  discipline  :  — 

Sic  ubi,  desuctas  silvis,  in  carccre  clause 
Mansuevere  ferae,  ct  vultus  posuere  minaces, 
Atque  hominem  didiccre  pati,  si  torrida  parvus 
Venit  in  ora  cruor,  redeunt  rabiesque  furorque, 
Admonitaeque  tument  gustato  sanguine  fauces : 
Fervet,  et  a  trepido  vix  abstinet  ira  magistro ; 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  1 3 

these  original  qualities  are  not  to  be  rooted  out ;  they  may  be 
covered  and  concealed.  The  Latin  tongue  is  as  it  were  natural 
to  me  ;  I  understand  it  better  than  French;  but  L  have  not 
been  used  to  speak  it,  nor  hardly  to  write  it,  these  forty  years. 
And  yet  upon  extreme  and  sudden  emotions  which  I  have  fallen 
into  twice  or  thrice  in  my  life,  and  once  seeing  my  father  in 
perfect  health  fall  upon  me  in  a  swoon,  I  have  always  uttered 
from  the  bottom  of  m\'  heart  my  first  words  in  Latin  ;  nature 
deafened,  and  forcibly  expressing  itself,  in  spite  of  so  long  a 
discontinuation  ;  and  this  example  is  said  of  many  others. 

They  who  in  my  time  have  attempted  to  correct  the  man- 
ners of  the  world  by  new  opinions,  reform  seeming  vices ;  but 
the  essential  vices  they  leave  as  they  were,  if  indeed  they  do 
not  augment  them  ;  and  augmentation  is  therein  to  be  feared  ; 
we  defer  all  other  well  doing  upon  the  account  of  these  exter- 
nal reformations,  of  less  cost  and  greater  show,  and  thereby 
expiate  good  cheap,  for  the  other  natural,  consubstantial,  and 
intestine  vices.  Look  a  little  into  our  experience  :  there  is  no 
man,  if  he  listen  to  himself,  who  does  not  in  himself  discover 
a  particular  and  governing  form  of  his  own,  that  jostles  his 
education,  and  wrestles  with  the  tempest  of  passions  that  are 
contrary  to  it.  For  my  part,  I  seldom  find  myself  agitated 
with  surprises  ;  I  always  find  myself  in  my  place,  as  heavy 
and  unwieldy  bodies  do  ;  if  I  am  not  at  home,  I  am  always 
near  at  hand  ;  my  dissipations  do  not.  transport  me  very  far  ; 
there  is  nothing  strange  or  extreme  in  the  case  ;  and  yet  I 
have  sound  and  vigorous  turns. 

The  true  condemnation,  and  which  touches  the  common 
practice  of  men,  is  that  their  very  retirement  itself  is  full  of 
filth  and  corruption  ;  the  idea  of  their  reformation  composed, 
their  repentance  sick  and  faulty,  very  nearly  as  much  as  their 
sin.  Some,  either  from  having  been  linked  to  vice  by  a  natural 
propension  or  long  practice,  cannot  see  its  deformity.  Others 
(of  which  constitution  I  am)  do  indeed  feel  the  weight  of 
vice,  but  they  counterbalance  it  with  pleasure,  or  some  other 
occasion  ;   and  suffer  and  lend  themselves  to  it  for  a  certain 


14  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

price,  but  viciously  and  basely.  Yet  there  might,  haply,  be 
imagined  so  vast  a  disproportion  of  measure,  where  with  jus- 
tice the  pleasure  might  excuse  the  sin,  as  we  say  of  utility  ; 
not  only  if  accidental,  and  out  of  sin,  as  in  thefts,  but  in  the 
very  exercise  of  sin,  as  in  the  enjoyment  of  women,  where 
the  temptation  is  violent,  and  't  is  said,  sometimes  not  to  be 
overcome. 

Being  the  other  day  at  Armaignac,  on  the  estate  of  a  kins- 
man of  mine,  I  there  saw  a  peasant  who  was  by  every  one 
nicknamed  iJic  thief.  He  thus  related  the  story  of  his  life  : 
that,  being  born  a  beggar,  and  finding  that  he  should  not  be 
able,  so  as  to  be  clear  of  indigence,  to  get  his  living  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  he  resolved  to  turn  thief,  and  by  means  of 
his  strength  of  body  had  exercised  this  trade  all  the  time  of 
his  youth  in  great  security ;  for  he  ever  made  his  harvest  and 
vintage  in  other  men's  grounds,  but  a  great  way  off,  and  in  so 
great  quantities,  that  it  was  not  to  be  imagined  one  man  could 
have  carried  away  so  much  in  one  night  upon  his  shoulders ; 
and,  moreover,  he  was  careful  equally  to  divide  and  distribute 
the  mischief  he  did,  that  the  loss  was  of  less  importance  to 
every  particular  man.  He  is  now  grown  old,  and  rich  for  a 
man  of  his  condition,  thanks  to  his  trade,  which  he  openly 
confesses  to  every  one.  And  to  make  his  peace  with  God,  he 
says,  that  he  is  daily  ready  by  good  offices  to  make  satisfaction 
to  the  successors  of  those  he  has  robbed,  and  if  he  do  not 
finish  (for  to  do  it  all  at  once  he  is  not  able),  he  will  then 
leave  it  in  charge  to  his  heirs  to  perform  the  rest,  proportion- 
ably  to  the  wrong  he  himself  only  knows  he  has  done  to  each. 
By  this  description,  true  or  false,  this  man  looks  upon  theft  as 
a  dishonest  action,  and  hates  it,  but  less  than  poverty,  and 
simply  repents  ;  but  to  the  extent  he  has  thus  recompensed 
he  repents  not.  This  is  not  that  habit  which  incorporates  us 
into  vice,  and  conforms  even  our  understanding  itself  to  it ; 
nor  is  it  that  impetuous  whirlwind  that  by  gusts  troubles  and 
blinds  our  souls,  and  for  the  time  precipitates  us,  judgment 
and  all,  into  the  power  of  vice. 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  15 

I  customarily  do  what  I  do  thoroughly  and  make  but  one 
step  on  't ;  I  have  rarely  any  movement  that  hides  itself  and 
steals  away  from  my  reason,  and  that  does  not  proceed  in  the 
matter  by  the  consent  of  all  my  faculties,  without  division  or 
intestine  sedition  ;  my  judgment  is  to  have  all  the  blame  or 
all  the  praise  ;  and  the  blame  it  once  has,  it  has  always  ;  for 
almost  from  my  infancy  it  has  ever  been  one  :  the  same  in- 
clination, the  same  turn,  the  same  force  ;  and  as  to  universal 
opinions,  I  fixed  myself  from  my  childhood  in  the  place  where 
I  resolved  to  stick.  There  are  some  sins  that  are  impetuous, 
prompt,  and  sudden  ;  let  us  set  them  aside  :  but  in  these  other 
sins  so  often  repeated,  deliberated,  and  contrived,  whether  sins 
of  complexion  or  sins  of  profession  and  vocation,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive that  they  should  have  so  long  been  settled  in  the  same 
resolution,  unless  the  reason  and  conscience  of  him  who  has 
them,  be  constant  to  have  them  ;  and  the  repentance  he  boasts 
to  be  inspired  with  on  a  sudden,  is  very  hard  for  me  to  imagine 
or  form.  I  follow  not  the  opinion  of  the  Pythagorean  sect, 
"that  men  take  up  a  new  soul  when  they  repair  to  the  images 
of  the  gods  to  receive  their  oracles,"  unless  he  mean  that  it 
must  needs  be  extrinsic,  new,  and  lent  for  the  time  ;  our  own 
showing  so  little  sign  of  purification  and  cleanness,  fit  for 
such  an  office. 

They  act  quite  contrary  to  the  stoical  precepts,  who  do  in- 
deed command  us  to  correct  the  imperfections  and  vices  we 
know  ourselves  guilty  of,  but  forbid  us  tlierefore  to  disturb 
the  repose  of  our  souls  :  these  make  us  believe  that  they  have 
great  grief  and  remorse  within  :  but  of  amendment,  correction, 
or  interruption,  they  make  nothing  appear.  It  cannot  be  a 
cure  if  the  malady  be  not  wholly  discharged  ;  if  repentance 
were  laid  upon  the  scale  of  the  balance,  it  would  weigh  down 
sin.  I  find  no  quality  so  easy  to  counterfeit  as  devotion,  if 
men  do  not  conform  their  manners  and  life  to  the  profession  ; 
its  essence  is  abstruse  and  occult ;  the  appearances  easy  and 
ostentatious. 

For  my  own  part,  I  may  desire  in  general  to  be  other  than 


l6  THE   ENGLISH   FAMILIAR    ESSAY 

I  am  ;  I  may  condemn  and  dislike  my  whole  form,  and  beg 
of  Almighty  God  for  an  entire  reformation,  and  that  He  will 
please  to  pardon  my  natural  infirmity  :  but  1  ouglit  not  to  call 
this  repentance,  methinks,  no  more  than  the  being  dissatisfied 
that  I  am  not  an  angel  or  Cato.  My  actions  are  regular,  and 
conformable  to  what  I  am  and  to  my  condition  ;  I  can  do  no 
better ;  and  repentance  does  not  properly  touch  things  that  are 
not  in  our  power  ;  sorrow  does.  I  imagine  an  infinite  number 
of  natures  more  elevated  and  regular  than  mine  ;  and  yet  I  do 
not  for  all  that  improve  my  faculties,  no  more  than  my  arm 
or  will  grow  more  strong  and  vigorous  for  conceiving  those 
of  another  to  be  so.  If  to  conceive  and  wish  a  nobler  way  of 
acting  than  that  we  have  should  produce  a  repentance  of  our 
own,  we  must  then  repent  us  of  our  most  innocent  actions, 
forasmuch  as  we  may  well  suppose  that  in  a  more  excellent 
nature  they  would  have  been  carried  on  with  greater  dignity 
and  perfection  ;  and  we  would  that  ours  were  so.  \Vhen  I 
reflect  upon  the  deportment  of  my  youth,  with  that  of  my  old 
age,  I  find  that  I  have  commonly  behaved  myself  with  equal 
order  in  both,  according  to  what  I  understand  :  this  is  all  that 
my  resistance  can  do.  I  do  not  flatter  myself ;  in  the  same 
circumstances  I  should  do  the  same  things.  It  is  not  a  patch, 
but  rather  an  universal  tincture,  with  which  I  am  stained.  I 
know  no  repentance,  superficial,  half-way,  and  cei"emonious  ;  it 
must  sting  me  all  over  before  I  can  call  it  so,  and  must  ])rick 
my  bowels  as  deeply  and  universally  as  God  sees  into  me. 

As  to  business,  many  excellent  opportunities  have  escaped 
me  for  want  of  good  management ;  and  yet  my  deliberations 
were  sound  enough,  according  to  the  occurrences  presented  to 
me  :  't  is  their  way  to  choose  always  the  easiest  and  safest 
course.  I  find  that,  in  my  former  resolves,  I  have  proceeded 
with  discretion,  according  to  my  own  rule,  and  according  to 
the  state  of  the  subject  proposed,  and  should  do  the  same 
a  thousand  years  hence  in  like  occasions  ;  I  do  not  consider 
what  it  is  now,  but  what  it  was  then,  when  I  deliberated  on 
it :  the  force  of  all  counsel  consists  in  the  time  ;  occasions  and 


MICHEL  dp:  MONTAIGNE  1/ 

things  eternally  shift  and  change.  I  have  in  my  life  committed 
some  important  errors,  not  for  want  of  good  understanding, 
but  for  want  of  good  luck.  I'here  are  secret,  and  not  to  be 
foreseen,  parts  in  matters  we  have  in  hand,  especially  in  the 
nature  of  men  ;  mute  conditions,  that  make  no  show,  unknown 
sometimes  even  to  the  possessors  themselves,  that  spring  and 
start  up  by  incidental  occasions  ;  if  my  prudence  could  not 
penetrate  into  nor  foresee  them,  I  blame  it  not:  'tis  com- 
missioned no  further  than  its  own  limits  ;  if  the  event  be  too 
hard  for  me,  and  take  the  side  I  have  refused,  there  is  no 
remedy  ;  I  do  not  blame  myself,  I  accuse  my  fortune,  and  not 
my  work  ;  this  cannot  be  called  repentance. 

Phocion,  having  given  the  Athenians  an  advice  that  was  not 
followed,  and  the  affair  nevertheless  succeeding  contrary  to  his 
opinion,  some  one  said  to  him,  "  Well,  Phocion,  art  thou  con- 
tent that  matters  go  so  well  ?"  "  I  am  very  well  content," 
replied  he,  "  that  this  has  happened  so  well,  but  I  do  not 
repent  that  I  counselled  the  other."  When  any  of  my  friends 
address  themselves  to  me  for  advice,  I  give  it  candidly  and 
clearly,  without  sticking,  as  almost  all  other  men  do,  at  the 
hazard  of  the  thing's  falling  out  contrary  to  my  opinion,  and 
that  I  may  be  reproached  for  my  counsel ;  I  am  very  indif- 
ferent as  to  that,  for  the  fault  will  be  theirs  for  having  con- 
sulted me,  and  I  could  not  refuse  them  that  office. 

I,  for  my  own  part,  can  rarely  blame  anyone  but  myself  for 
my  oversights  and  misfortunes,  for  indeed  I  seldom  solicit  the 
advice  of  another,  if  not  by  honour  of  ceremony,  or  except- 
ing where  I  stand  in  need  of  information,  special  science,  or 
as  to  matter  of  fact.  But  in  things  wherein  I  stand  in  need 
of  nothing  but  judgment,  other  men's  reasons  may  serve  to 
fortify  my  own,  but  have  little  power  to  dissuade  me ;  I  hear 
them  all  with  civility  and  patience  :  but,  to  my  recollection,  I 
never  made  use  of  any  but  my  own.  With  me,  they  are  but 
flies  and  atoms,  that  confound  and  distract  my  will ;  I  lay  no 
great  stress  upon  my  opinions  ;  but  I  lay  as  little  upon  those 
of  others,  and  fortune  rewards  me  accordingly  :  if  I  receive  but 


l8  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

little  advice,  I  also  give  but  little.  I  am  seldom  consulted,  and 
still  more  seldom  believed,  and  know  no  concern,  either  public 
or  private,  that  has  been  mended  or  bettered  by  my  advice. 
Even  they  whom  fortune  had  in  some  sort  tied  to  my  direc- 
tion, have  more  willingly  suffered  themselves  to  be  governed 
by  any  other  counsels  than  mine.  And  as  a  man  who  am  as 
jealous  of  my  repose  as  of  my  authority,  I  am  better  pleased 
that  it  should  be  so  ;  in  leaving  me  there,  they  humour  what 
I  profess,  which  is  to  settle  and  wholly  contain  myself  within 
myself.  I  take  a  pleasure  in  being  uninterested  in  other 
men's  affairs,  and  disengaged  from  being  their  warranty,  and 
responsible  for  what  they  do. 

In  all  affairs  that  are  past,  be  it  how  it  will,  I  have  very  little 
regret ;  for  this  imagination  puts  me  out  of  my  pain,  that  they 
were  so  to  fall  out :  they  are  in  the  great  revolution  of  the 
world,  and  in  the  chain  of  stoical  causes  :  your  fancy  cannot, 
by  wish  and  imagination,  move  one  tittle,  but  that  the  great 
current  of  things  will  not  reverse  both  the  past  and  the  future. 

As  to  the  rest,  I  abominate  that  incidental  repentance  which 
old  age  brings  along  with  it.  He,  who  said  of  old,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  his  age  for  having  weaned  him  from  pleasure, 
was  of  another  opinion  than  I  am  ;  I  can  never  think  myself 
beholden  to  impotency  for  any  good  it  can  do  to  me  : 

Nee  tarn  aversa  unquam  videbitur  ab  opere  suo  providentia,  ut  debilitas 
inter  optima  inventa  sit. 

Our  appetites  are  rare  in  old  age  ;  a  profound  satiety  seizes  us 
after  the  act ;  in  this  I  see  nothing  of  conscience  ;  chagrin  and 
weakness  imprint  in  us  a  drowsy  and  rheumatic  virtue.  We 
must  not  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  wholly  carried  away  by  natu- 
ral alterations  as  to  suffer  our  judgments  to  be  imposed  upon 
by  them.  Youth  and  pleasure  have  not  formerly  so  far  pre- 
vailed with  me,  that  I  did  not  well  enough  discern  the  face 
of  vice  in  pleasure  ;  neither  does  the  distaste  that  years  have 
brought  me,  so  far  prevail  with  me  now,  that  I  cannot  discern 
pleasure  in  vice.    Now  that  I  am  no  more  in  my  flourishing 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  19 

age,  I  judge  as  well  of  these  things  as  if  I  were.  I,  who  nar- 
rowly and  strictly  examine  it,  find  my  reason  the  very  same  it 
was  in  my  most  licentious  age,  except,  perhaps,  that  't  is  weaker 
and  more  decayed  by  being  grown  older ;  and  I  find  that  the 
pleasure  it  refuses  me  upon  the  account  of  my  bodily  health, 
it  would  no  more  refuse  now,  in  consideration  of  the  health 
of  my  soul,  than  at  any  time  heretofore.  I  do  not  repute  it 
the  more  valiant  for  not  being  able  to  combat ;  my  temptations 
are  so  broken  and  mortified,  that  they  are  not  worth  its  oppo- 
sition ;  holding  but  out  my  hands,  I  repel  them.  Should  one 
present  the  old  concupiscence  before  it,  I  fear  it  would  have 
less  power  to  resist  it  than  heretofore  ;  I  do  not  discern  that 
in  itself  it  judges  anything  otherwise  now,  than  it  formerly 
did,  nor  that  it  has  acquired  any  new  light :  wherefore,  if  there 
be  convalescence,  't  is  an  enchanted  one.  Miserable  kind  of 
remedy,  to  owe  one's  health  to  one's  disease  !  'T  is  not  that 
our  misfortune  should  perform  this  office,  but  the  good  for- 
tune of  our  judgment.  I  am  not  to  be  made  to  do  anything 
by  persecutions  and  afflictions,  but  to  curse  them  :  that  is  for 
people  who  cannot  be  roused  but  by  a  whip.  My  reason  is 
much  more  free  in  prosperity,  and  much  more  distracted,  and 
put  to't  to  digest  pains  than  pleasures  :  I  see  best  in  a  clear 
sky ;  health  admonishes  me  more  cheerfully,  and  to  better 
purpose,  than  sickness.  I  did  all  that  in  me  lay  to  reform  and 
regulate  myself  from  pleasures,  at  a  time  when  I  had  health 
and  vigour  to  enjoy  them  ;  I  should  be  ashamed  and  envious 
that  the  misery  and  misfortune  of  my  old  age  should  have 
credit  o\-er  rn\'  good,  healthful,  sprightly,  and  vigorous  years  ; 
and  that  men  should  estimate  me,  not  by  what  I  have  been, 
but  by  what  I   have  ceased  to  be. 

In  my  opinion,  'tis  the  happy  living,  and  not  (as  Antis- 
thenes  said)  the  happy  dying,  in  which  human  felicity  con- 
sists. I  have  not  made  it  my  business  to  make  a  monstrous 
addition  of  a  philosopher's  tail  to  the  head  and  body  of  a 
libertine  ;  nor  would  I  have  this  wretched  remainder  give  the 
lie  to  the  pleasant,  sound,  and  long  part  of  my  life  :  I  would 


20  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

present  myself  uniformly  throughout.  Were  I  to  live  my  life 
over  again,  I  should  live  it  just  as  I  have  lived  it ;  I  neither 
complain  of  the  past,  nor  do  I  fear  the  future  ;  and  if  I  am 
not  much  deceived,  I  am  the  same  within  that  I  am  without. 
'T  is  one  main  obligation  I  have  to  my  fortune,  that  the  suc- 
cession of  my  bodily  estate  has  been  carried  on  according  to 
the  natural  seasons  ;  I  have  seen  the  grass,  the  blossom,  and 
tlic  fruit,  and  now  see  the  withering  ;  happily,  however,  be- 
cause naturally.  I  bear  the  infirmities  I  have  the  better,  be- 
cause they  came  not  till  I  had  reason  to  expect  them,  and 
because  also  they  make  me  with  greater  pleasure  remember 
that  long  felicity  of  my  past  life.  My  wisdom  may  have  been 
just  the  same  in  both  ages  ;  but  it  was  more  active,  and  of 
better  gi'ace  whilst  young  and  sprightly,  than  now  it  is  when 
broken,  peevish,  and  uneasy.  I  repudiate,  then,  these  casual 
and  painful  reformations.  God  must  touch  our  hearts ;  our 
consciences  must  amend  of  themselves,  by  the  aid  of  our 
reason,  and  not  by  the  decay  of  our  appetites  ;  pleasure  is,  in 
itself,  neither  pale  nor  discoloured,  to  be  discerned  by  dim 
and  decayed  eyes. 

We  ought  to  love  temperance  for  itself,  and  because  God 
has  commanded  that  and  chastity  ;  but  that  which  we  are  re- 
duced to  by  catarrhs,  and  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  the  stone, 
is  neither  chastity  nor  temperance  ;  a  man  cannot  boast  that 
he  despises  and  resists  pleasure,  if  he  cannot  see  it,  if  he 
knows  not  what  it  is,  and  cannot  discern  its  graces,  its  force, 
and  most  alluring  beauties ;  I  know  both  the  one  and  the 
other,  and  may  therefore  the  better  say  it.  But,  methinks,  our 
souls  in  old  age  are  subject  to  more  troublesome  maladies  and 
imperfections  than  in  youth  ;  I  said  the  same  when  young  and 
when  I  was  reproached  with  the  want  of  a  beard  ;  and  I  say 
so  now  that  my  gi"ey  hairs  give  me  some  authority.  We  call 
the  difficulty  of  our  humours  and  the  disrelish  of  present 
things  wisdom  ;  but,  in  truth,  we  do  not  so  much  forsake  vices 
as  we  change  them,  and,  in  my  opinion,  for  worse.  Besides 
a   foolish    and    feeble   pride,   an    impertinent   prating,   froward 


MICHEL  1)K  MONTAIGNE  21 

and  insociablc  humours,  superstition,  and  a  ridiculous  desire  of 
riches  when  we  have  lost  the  use  of  them,  I  find  there  more 
envy,  injustice,  and  malice.  Age  imprints  more  wrinkles  in 
the  mind  than  it  does  on  the  face  ;  and  souls  are  never,  or 
very  rarely  seen,  that,  in  growing  old,  do  not  smell  sour  and 
musty.  Man  moves  all  together,  both  towards  his  perfection 
and  decay.  In  observing  the  wisdom  of  Socrates,  and  many 
circumstances  of  his  condemnation,  I  should  dare  to  believe 
that  he  in  some  sort  himself  purposely,  by  collusion,  con- 
tributed to  it,  seeing  that,  at  the  age  of  seventy  years,  he 
might  fear  to  suffer  the  lofty  motions  of  his  mind  to  be 
cramped  and  his  w^onted  lustre  obscured.  What  strange  meta- 
morphoses do  I  see  age  every  day  make  in  many  of  my 
acquaintance  !  'T  is  a  potent  malady,  and  that  naturally  and 
imperceptibly  steals  into  us ;  a  vast  provision  of  study  and 
great  precaution  are  required  to  evade  the  imperfections  it 
loads  us  with,  or  at  least  to  weaken  their  progress.  I  find 
that,  notwithstanding  all  my  entrenchments,  it  gets  foot  by 
foot  upon  me  :  I  make  the  best  resistance  I  can,  but  I  do 
not  know  to  what  at  last  it  will  reduce  me.  But  fall  out  what 
will,  I  am  content  the  world  may  know,  when  I  am  fallen, 
from  what  I  fell. 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  (1561-1626) 

OF  STUDIES 

(1597) 

Studies  serve  for  pastimes,  for  ornaments,  and  for  abilities. 
Their  chief  use  for  pastime  is  in  privateness  and  retiring ;  for 
ornament  is  in  discourse,  and  for  ability  is  in  judgment.  For 
expert  men  can  execute,  but  learned  men  are  fittest  to  judge 
or  censure. 

To  spend  too  mucli  time  in  them  is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too 
much  for  ornament  is  affectation  ;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by 
their  rules  is  the  humour  of  a  scholar. 

They  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience. 

Crafty  men  contemn  them,  simple  men  admire  them,  wise 
men  use  them  :  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use,  but  that  is  a 
wisdom  without  them  and  above  them,  won  by  observation. 

Read  not  to  contradict,  nor  to  believe,  but  to  weigh  and 
consider. 

Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and 
some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  :  that  is,  some  books  arc 
to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but  cursorily,  and 
sonre  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention. 

Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and 
writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore  if  a  man  write  little,  he 
had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had 
need  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have 
much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 

Histories  make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathematics  sub- 
tle, natural  philosophy  deep,  moral  grave,  logic  and  rhetoric 
able  to  contend. 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  23 

(1625) 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament  and  for  ability. 
Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness,  and  retiring ;  for 
ornament,  is  in  discourse  ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment 
and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men  can  execute,  and 
perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the  general 
counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs,  come  best 
from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in  stud- 
ies is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament  is  affectation  ; 
to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules  is  the  humour  of  a 
scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience  : 
for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  proyning 
by  study ;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions 
too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience. 
Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and 
wise  men  use  them  :  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use  ;  but  that 
is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above  them,  won  by  observation. 
Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute  ;  nor  to  believe  and  take 
for  granted  ;  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse ;  but  to  weigh  and 
consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  ;  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curi- 
ously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and 
attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  ex- 
tracts made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the 
less  important  arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else 
distilled  books  are  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things. 
Reading  maketh  a  full  man  ;  conference  a  ready  man  ;  and 
writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little, 
he  had  need  have  a  great  memory  ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had 
need  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need 
ha\'e  much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  His- 
tories make  men  wise  ;  poets  witty ;  the  mathematics  subtile  ; 
natural  philosophy  deep  ;  moral  grave  ;  logic  and  rhetoric  able 
to  contend.    Abcnnt  studia  in  mores.    Nay,  there  is  no  stond 


24  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but  may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  stud- 
ies :  like  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appropriate  exer- 
cises. BowHng  is  good  for  the  stone  and  reins  ;  shooting  for 
the  lungs  and  breast ;  gentle  walking  for  the  stomach  ;  riding 
for  the  head  ;  and  the  like.  So  if  a  man's  wit  be  wandering, 
let  him  study  the  mathematics  ;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his 
wit  be  called  away  never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again.  If  his 
wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him  study 
the  schoolmen  ;  for  they  are  cyviiui  scctoirs.  If  he  be  not  apt 
to  beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and 
illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the  lawyers'  cases.  So  every 
defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 


OF  EMPIRE 

(1612) 

It  is  a  miserable  state  of  mind  to  have  few  things  to  desire 
and  many  things  to  fear  ;  and  yet  that  commonly  is  the  case 
of  kings  ;  who,  being  at  the  highest,  want  matter  of  desire, 
which  makes  their  minds  the  more  languishing ;  and  have 
many  representations  of  perils  and  shadows,  which  makes  their 
minds  the  less  clear.  And  this  is  one  reason  also  of  that  effect 
which  the  Scripture  speaketh  of,  TJiat  the  kint^f  s  heart  is  in- 
sen/ table.  For  multitude  of  jealousies,  and  lack  of  some  pre- 
dominant desire  that  should  marshal  and  put  in  order  all  the 
rest,  maketh  any  man's  heart  hard  to  find  or  sound.  Hence 
cometh  it  likewise  that  princes  many  times  make  themselves 
desires,  and  set  their  hearts  upon  toys  :  sometimes  upon  a  build- 
ing ;  sometimes  upon  an  order  ;  sometimes  upon  the  advancing 
of  a  person  ;  sometimes  upon  obtaining  excellency  in  some  art 
or  feat  of  the  hand ;  and  such  like  things,  which  seem  incred- 
ible to  those  that  know  not  the  principle,  77iat  the  mind  of 
man  is  ijiore  eJieered  and  refreshed  by  profiting  in  small 
things  tJian  by  standing  at  a  stay  in  great.  Therefore  great 
and   fortunate  concjucrors  in  their  first  years  turn  melancholy 


SIR   FRANCIS   BACON  25 

and  superstitious  in  their  latter  ;  as  did  Alexander  the  Great, 
and  in  our  memory  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  many  others.  For 
he  that  is  used  to  go  forward,  and  findeth  a  stop,  falleth  out 
of  his  own  favour.  A  true  temper  of  government  is  a  rare 
thing;  for  both  temper  and  distemper  consist' of  contraries. 
But  it  is  one  thing  to  mingle  contraries,  another  to  interchange 
them.  The  answer  of  Apollonius  to  Vespasian  is  full  of  ex- 
cellent instruction.  Vespasian  asked  him,  JV/iat  luas  AWo's 
ovcrthrozv  ?  He  answered  :  Nero  could  touch  aud  tunc  the  harp 
well ;  but  in  govcrmiicnt  sometimes  he  tised  to  zuind  the  pins 
too  high,  and  souietiuies  to  let  them  doion  too  lozv.  And  cer- 
tain it  is  that  nothing  destroyeth  authority  so  much  as  the 
unequal  and  untimely  interchange  of  pressing  power  and  relax- 
ing power.  The  wisdom  of  all  these  latter  times  in  princes' 
affairs  is  rather  fine  deliveries  and  shiftings  of  dangers  and 
mischiefs  when  they  are  near,  than  solid  and  grounded  courses 
to  keep  them  aloof.  I^ut  let  men  beware  how  they  neglect  and 
suffer  matter  of  trouble  to  be  prepared  ;  for  no  man  can  for- 
bid the  spark,  nor  tell  whence  it  may  come.  The  difficultness 
in  princes'  business  are  many  times  great ;  but  the  greatest 
difficulty  is  often  in  their  own  mind.  For  it  is  common  with 
princes  (saith  Tacitus)  to  will  contradictories  :  Sunt  plcritmque 
regum  vol  nutates  vcJiementes,  et  inter  se  contraria;.  For  it  is 
the  solecism  of  power,  to  think  to  command  the  end,  and  yet 
not  to  endure  the  mean.  Princes  are  like  to  the  heavenly  bodies, 
which  cause  good  or  evil  times  ;  and  which  have  much  vener- 
ation, but  no  rest.  All  precepts  concerning  kings  are  in  effect 
ccjmprehended  in  those  two  remembrances  :  Memento  quod  cs 
homo,  and  JSIemoito  quod  es  Deus  or  vice  Dei:  the  one  to 
bridle  their  power,  and  the  other  their  will. 

(1625) 

It  is  a  miserable  state  of  mind  to  have  few  things  to  desire 
and  many  things  to  fear ;  and  yet  that  commonly  is  the  case 
of  kings  ;  who,  being  at  the  highest,  want  matter  of  desire, 
which  makes  their  minds  more  languishing;   and  have  many 


26  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

representations  of  perils  and  shadows,  which  makes  their  minds 
the  less  clear.  And  this  is  one  reason  also  of  that  effect  which 
the  Scripture  speaketh  of,  That  the  kiugs  heart  is  inscrutable. 
For  multitude  of  jealousies,  and  lack  of  some  predominant 
desire  that  should  marshal  and  put  in  order  all  the  rest,  mak- 
eth  any  man's  heart  hard  to  find  or  sound.  Hence  it  comes 
likewise  that  princes  many  times  make  themselves  desires,  and 
set  their  hearts  upon  toys  :  sometimes  upon  a  building  ;  some- 
times upon  erecting  of  an  order ;  sometimes  upon  the  advanc- 
ing of  a  person  ;  sometimes  upon  obtaining  excellency  in  some 
art  or  feat  of  the  hand  ;  as  Nero  for  playing  on  the  harp, 
Domitian  for  certainty  of  the  hand  with  the  arrow,  Commodus 
for  playing  at  fence,  Caracalla  for  driving  chariots,  and  the  like. 
This  seemeth  incredible  unto  those  that  know  not  the  princi- 
ple, that  the  mind  of  man  is  more  cheered  and  refreshed  by 
profitiiig  in  small  things  than  by  standing  at  a  stay  in  great. 
We  see  also  that  kings  that  have  been  fortunate  conquerors  in 
their  first  years,  it  being  not  possible  for  them  to  go  forward 
infinitely,  but  that  they  must  have  some  check  or  arrest  in 
their  fortunes,  turn  in  their  latter  years  to  be  superstitious 
and  melancholy  ;  as  did  Alexander  the  Great,  Diocletian,  and 
in  our  memory  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  othei'^  :  for  he  that  is 
used  to  go  forward,  and  findeth  a  stop,  falleth  out  of  his  own 
favour,  and  is  not  the  thing  he  was. 

To  speak  now  of  the  true  temper  of  empire  :  it  is  a  thing 
rare,  and  hard  to  keep  ;  for  both  temper  and  distemper  con- 
sist of  contraries.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  mingle  contraries, 
another  to  interchange  them.  The  answer  of  Apollonius  to 
Vespasian  is  full  of  excellent  instruction.  Vespasian  asked 
him.  What  zvas  Nero's  overthrow  ?  He  answered,  lYero  eonld 
touch  and  tune  the  harp  zvell ;  but  in  government  sometimes 
he^  used  to  wind  the  pins  too  high,  sometimes  to  let  them  doivn 
too  low.  And  certain  it  is  that  nothing  destroyeth  authority 
so  much  as  the  unequal  and  untimely  interchange  of  power 
pressed  too  far,  and  relaxed  too  much. 

This  is  true,  that  the  wisdom  of  all  these  latter  times  in 


SIR   FRANCIS   BACON  27 

princes'  affairs  is  rather  fine  deliveries  and  shiftings  of  dangers 
and  mischiefs  when  they  are  near,  than  soHd  and  grounded 
courses  to  keep  them  aloof.  But  this  is  but  to  try  masteries 
with  fortune.  And  let  men  beware  how  they  neglect  and  suffer 
matter  of  trouble  to  be  prepared  ;  for  no  man  can  forbid  the 
spark,  nor  tell  whence  it  may  come.  The  difficulties  in  princes' 
business  are  many  and  great ;  but  the  greatest  difficulty  is 
often  in  their  own  mind.  For  it  is  common  with  princes  (saith 
Tacitus)  to  will  contradictories  :  Sunt  plcrmnqiic  irgitin  vol- 
imtatcs  vchcmcntcs,  ct  inter  se  contrarice.  For  it  is  the  sole- 
cism of  power,  to  think  to  command  the  end,  and  yet  not  to 
endure  the  mean. 

Kings  have  to  deal  with  their  neighbours,  their  wives,  their 
children,  their  prelates  or  clergy,  their  nobles,  their  second- 
nobles  or  gentlemen,  their  merchants,  their  commons,  and 
their  men  of  war ;  and  from  all  these  arise  dangers,  if  care 
and  circumspection  be  not  used. 

First  for  their  neighbours  ;  there  can  no  general  rule  be 
given  (the  occasions  are  so  variable),  save  one,  which  ever 
holdeth  ;  which  is,  that  princes  do  keep  due  sentinel,  that  none 
of  their  neighbours  do  overgrow  so  (by  increase  of  territory,  by 
embracing  of  trade,  by  approaches,  or  the  like)  as  they  become 
more  able  to  annoy  them  than  they  were.  And  this  is  gener- 
ally the  work  of  standing  councils  to  foresee  and  to  hinder  it. 
During  that  triumvirate  of  kings.  King  Henry  the  Eighth  of 
England,  Francis  the  First  King  of  France,  and  Charles  the 
Y\hh  Emperor,  there  was  such  a  watch  kept,  that  none  of  the 
three  could  win  a  palm  of  ground,  but  the  other  two  would 
straightways  balance  it,  either  by  confederation,  or,  if  need 
were,  by  a  war ;  and  would  not  in  any  wise  take  up  peace  at 
interest.  And  the  like  was  done  by  that  league  (which  Guic- 
ciardine  saith  was  the  security  of  Italy)  made  between  Ferdi- 
nando  King  of  Naples,  Lorenzius  Medices,  and  Eudovicus 
Sforza,  potentates,  the  one  of  Florence,  the  other  of  Milan. 
Neither  is  the  opinion  of  some  of  the  schoolmen  to  be  received, 
t/iat  a  li'cir  cannot  Justly  be  made  but  upon  a  precedent  injury 


28  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

or  provocation.  For  there  is  no  question  but  a  just  fear  of  an 
imminent  danger,  though  there  be  no  blow  given,  is  a  lawful 
cause  of  a  war. 

For  their  wives  ;  there  are  cruel  examples  of  them.  Livia  is 
infamed  for  the  poisoning  of  her  husband  ;  Roxalana,  Soly- 
man's  wife,  was  the  destruction  of  that  renowned  prince  Sultan 
Mustapha,  and  otherwise  troubled  his  house  and  succession  ; 
Edward  the  Second  of  England  his  queen  had  the  principal 
hand  in  the  deposing  and  murther  of  her  husband.  This  kind 
of  danger  is  then  to  be  feared  chiefly,  when  the  wives  have 
plots  for  the  raising  of  their  own  children,  or  else  that  they 
be  advoutresses. 

For  their  children ;  the  tragedies  likewise  of  dangers  from 
them  have  been  many.  And  generally,  the  entering  of  fathers 
into  suspicion  of  their  children  hath  been  ever  unfortunate., 
The  destruction  of  Mustapha  (that  we  named  before)  was  so 
fatal  to  Solyman's  line,  as  the  succession  of  the  Turks  from 
Solyman  until  this  day  is  suspected  to  be  untrue,  and  of  strange 
blood  ;  for  that  Selymus  the  Second  was  thought  to  be  sup- 
posititious. The  destruction  of  Crispus,  a  young  prince  of  rare 
towardness,  by  Constantinus  the  Great,  his  father,  was  in  like 
manner  fatal  to  his  house  ;  for  both  Constantinus  and  Con- 
stance, his  sons,  died  violent  deaths ;  and  Constantius,  his  other 
son,  did  little  better ;  who  died  indeed  of  sickness,  but  after 
that  Julianus  had  taken  arms  against  him.  The  destruction  of 
Demetrius,  son  to  Philip  the  Second  of  Macedon,  turned  upon 
the  father,  who  died  of  repentance.  And  many  like  examples 
there  are;  but  few  or  none  where  the  fathers  had  good  by  such 
distrust ;  except  it  were  where  the  sons  were  up  in  open  arms 
against  them ;  as  was  Selymus  the  First  against  Bajazet ;  and 
the  three  sons  of  Henry  the  Second,  King  of  England. 

For  their  prelates  ;  when  they  are  proud  and  great,  there  is 
also  danger  from  them  ;  as  it  was  in  the  times  of  Ansclmus 
and  Thomas  Becket,  Archbishops  of  Canterbury  ;  who  with 
their  crosiers  did  almost  try  it  with  the  king's  sword  ;  and  yet 
they  had  to  deal  with  stout  and  haughty  kings,  William  Rufus, 


SIR   FRANCIS   I5ACON  29 

Henry  the  First,  and  Henry  the  Seeond.  The  danger  is  not 
from  that  state,  but  where  it  hath  a  dependence  of  foreign 
authority ;  or  where  the  churchmen  come  in  and  are  elected, 
not  by  the  collation  of  the  king,  or  particular  patrons,  but  by 
the  people. 

For  their  nobles ;  to  keep  them  at  a  distance,  it  is  not  amiss ; 
but  to  depress  them  may  make  a  king  more  absolute,  but  less 
safe,  and  less  able  to  perform  anything  that  he  desires.  I  have 
noted  it  in  my  history  of  King  Henry  the  Seventh  of  England, 
who  depressed  his  nobility  ;  whereupon  it  came  to  pass  that  his 
times  were  full  of  difficulties  and  troubles  ;  for  the  nobility, 
though  they  continued  loyal  unto  him,  yet  did  they  not  co- 
operate with  him  in  his  business.  So  that  in  effect  he  was  fain 
to  do  all  things  himself. 

For  their  second-nobles  ;  there  is  not  much  danger  from 
them,  being  a  body  dispersed.  They  may  sometimes  discourse 
high,  but  that  doth  little  hurt ;  besides,  they  are  a  counterpoise 
to  the  higher  nobility,  that  they  grow  not  too  potent ;  and, 
lastly,  being  the  most  immediate  in  authority  with  the  common 
people,  they  do  best  temper  popular  commotions. 

For  their  merchants ;  they  are  vena  porta ;  and  if  they 
flourish  not,  a  kingdom  may  have  good  limbs,  but  will  have 
empty  veins,  and  nourish  little.  Taxes  and  imposts  upon  them 
do  seldom  good  to  the  king's  revenue  ;  for  that  that  he  wins  in 
the  hundred  he  leeseth  in  the  shire  ;  the  particular  rates  being 
increased,  but  the  total  bulk  of  trading  rather  decreased. 

For  their  commons  ;  there  is  little  danger  from  them,  except 
it  be  where  they  have  great  and  potent  heads  ;  or  where  you 
meddle  with  the  point  of  religion,  or  their  customs,  or  means 
of  life. 

For  their  men  of  war ;  it  is  a  dangerous  state  where  they 
live  and  remain  in  a  body,  and  are  used  to  donatives  ;  whereof 
we  see  examples  in  the  janizaries,  and  pretorian  bands  of 
Rome  :  but  trainings  of  men,  and  arming  them  in  several 
places,  and  under  several  commanders,  and  without  donatives, 
are  things  of  defence,  and  no  danger. 


30  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Princes  are  like  to  heavenly  bodies,  which  cause  good  or 
evil  times ;  and  which  have  much  veneration,  but  no  rest. 
All  precepts  concerning  kings  are  in  effect  comprehended  in 
those  two  remembrances  :  Memento  quod  es  homo,  and  Mc- 
meiito  quod  es  Dens,  or  viec  Dei :  tlie  one  bridleth  their  power, 
and  the  other  their  will. 

OF  TRUTH 

(1625) 

IV/iaf  is  truth  ?  said  jesting  Pilate,  and  would  not  stay  for 
an  answer.  Certainly  there  be  that  delight  in  giddiness,  and 
count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief  ;  affecting  free-will  in  think- 
ing, as  well  as  in  acting.  And  though  the  sects  of  philosophers 
of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  there  remain  certain  discoursing  wits 
which  are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  be  not  so  much 
blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of  the  ancients.  But  it  is  not 
only  the  difficulty  and  labour  which  men  take  in  finding  out  of 
truth,  nor  again  that  when  it  is  found  it  imposeth  upon  men's 
thoughts,  that  doth  bring  lies  in  favour  ;  but  a  natural  though 
corrupt  love  of  the  lie  itself.  One  of  the  later  school  of  the 
Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and  is  at  a  stand  to  think  what 
should  be  in  it,  that  men  should  love  lies,  where  neither  they 
make  for  pleasure,  as  with  poets,  nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the 
merchant,  but  for  the  lie's  sake.  But  I  cannot  tell :  this  same 
truth  is  a  naked  and  open  day-light,  that  doth  not  shew  the 
masques  and  mummeries  and  triumphs  of  the  world  half  so 
stately  and  daintily  as  candle-lights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come 
to  the  price  of  a  pearl,  that  sheweth  best  by  day  ;  but  it  will 
not  rise  to  the  price  of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle,  that  sheweth 
best  in  varied  lights.  A  mixture  of  a  lie  doth  ever  add  pleas- 
ure. Doth  any  man  doubt,  that  if  there  were  taken  out  of 
men's  minds  vain  opinions,  flattering  hopes,  false  valuations, 
imaginations  as  one  would,  and  the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the 
minds  of  a  number  of  men  poor  shrunken  things,  full  of  mel- 
ancholy and  indisposition,  and  unpleasing  to  themselves  1    One 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  31 

of  the  Fathers,  in  great  severity,  called  poesy  viujim  dccnionnui, 
because  it  filleth  the  imagination  ;  and  yet  it  is  but  with  the 
shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it  is  not  the  lie  that  passeth  through  the 
mind,  but  the  lie  that  sinketh  in  and  settleth  in  it,  that  doth 
the  hurt,  such  as  we  spake  of  before.  But  howsoever  these 
things  are  thus  in  men's  depraved  judgments  and  affections, 
yet  truth,  which  only  doth  judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the  in- 
quiry of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making  or  wooing  of  it,  the 
knowledge  of  truth,  which  is  the  presence  of  it,  •  and  the  be- 
lief of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it,  is  the  sovereign  good 
of  human  nature.  The  first  creature  of  God,  in  the  works  of 
the  days,  was  the  light  of  the  sense  ;  the  last  was  the  light  of 
reason  ;  and  his  sabbath  work  ever  since,  is  the  illumination 
of  his  Spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the  face  of  the 
matter  or  chaos  ;  then  he  breathed  light  into  the  face  of  man  ; 
and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into  the  face  of  his 
chosen.  The  poet  that  beautified  the  sect  that  was  otherwise 
inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  well :  //  is  a  pleasure 
to  stand  iipoji  the  shore,  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon  the  sea  ; 
a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  zvindozv  of  a  eastle,  and  to  see  a 
battle  and  the  adventures  thereof  below :  but  no  pleasure  is 
conparable  to  the  standing  iipon  the  vantage  ground  of  Truth 
(a  hill  not  to  be  commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always  clear 
and  serene),  ajid  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and  mists, 
and  tempests,  in  the  vale  beloiv  ;  so  always  that  this  prospect 
be  with  pity,  and  not  ivith  swelling  or  pride.  Certainly,  it  is 
heaven  upon  earth,  to  have  a  man's  mind  move  in  charity, 
rest  in  providence,  and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical  truth  to  the  truth 
of  civil  business  :  it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by  those  that 
practise  it  not,  that  clear  and  round  dealing  is  the  honour  of 
man's  nature  ;  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  allay  in 
coin  of  gold  and  sil\-er,  which  may  make  the  metal  work  the 
better,  but  it  embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked 
courses  are  the  goings  of  the  serpent ;  which  goeth  basely 
upon  the  belly,  and  not  upon  the  feet.    There  is  no  vice  that 


32  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAU  ESSAY 

doth  so  cover  a  man  with  shame  as  to  be  found  false  and  per- 
fidious. And  therefore  Montaigne  saith  prettily,  when  he  in- 
quired the  reason  why  the  word  of  the  lie  should  be  such  a 
disgrace  and  such  an  odious  charge  ?  Saith  he,  If  it  be  zvcll 
ivcigJicd,  to  say  that  a  man  licth  is  as  iniich  to  say  as  that 
he  is  brave  towards  God  and  a  cozvard  towards  men.  For 
a  lie  faces  God,  and  shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the  wicked- 
ness of  falsehood  and  breach  of  faith  cannot  possibly  be  so 
highly  expressed,  as  in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal  to  call 
the  judgments  of  God  upon  the  generations  of  men  ;  it  being 
foretold,  that  when  Christ  cometh,  he  shall  not  find  faith  upon 
the  earth. 

OF   DEATH 

(1625) 

Men  fear  Death  as  children  fear  to  go  in  the  dark  ;  and  as 
that  natural  fear  in  children  is  increased  with  tales,  so  is  the 
other.  Certainly,  the  contemplation  of  death,  as  the  wages  of 
sin  and  passage  to  another  world,  is  holy  and  religious  ;  but 
the  fear  of  it,  as  a  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is  weak.  Yet  in 
religious  meditations  there  is  sometimes  mixture  of  vanity  and 
of  superstition.  You  shall  read  in  some  of  the  friars'  books 
of  mortification,  that  a  man  should  think  with  himself  what 
the  pain  is  if  he  have  but  his  finger's  end  pressed  or  tortured, 
cind  thereby  imagine  what  the  pains  of  death  are,  when  the 
whole  body  is  corrupted  and  dissolved ;  when  many  times 
death  passeth  with  less  pain  than  the  torture  of  a  limb ;  for 
the  most  vital  parts  are  not  the  quickest  of  sense.  And  by 
him  that  spake  only  as  a  philosopher  and  natural  man,  it  was 
well  said,  Pompa  mortis  magis  tei'ret  qiiavi  mors  ipsa.  Groans 
and  convulsions,  and  a  discoloured  face,  and  friends  weeping, 
and  blacks,  and  obsequies,  and  the  like,  shew  death  terrible. 
It  is  worthy  the  observing,  that  there  is  no  passion  in  the 
mind  of  man  so  weak,  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  fear  of 
death ;    and  therefore  death  is  no  such  terrible  enemy  when 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  33 

a  man  hath  so  man)-  attendants  about  him  tliat  can  win  the 
combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over  death  ;  love  sHghts  it ; 
honour  aspireth  to  it ;  grief  flieth  to  it ;  fear  pre-occupateth  it ; 
nay,  we  read,  after  Otho  the  Emperor  had  slain  himself,  pity 
(which  is  the  tenderest  of  affections)  provoked  many  to  die, 
out  of  mere  compassion  to  their  sovereign,  and  as  the  truest 
sort  of  followers.  Nay,  Seneca  adds  niceness  and  satiety : 
Cog-it  a  qjiaindhi.  cadcm  fcccris  ;  mori  vcllc,  non  tantuui  fortis, 
ant  miser,  scd  ctiam  fastidiosiis  potest.  A  man  would  die, 
though  he  were  neither  valiant  nor  miserable,  only  upon  a 
weariness  to  do  the  same  thing  so  oft  over  and  over.  It  is 
no  less  worthy  to  observe,  how  little  alteration  in  good  spirits 
the  approaches  of  death  make ;  for  they  appear  to  be  the  same 
men  till  the  last  instant.  Augustus  Ccesar  died  in  a  compli- 
ment :  Livia,  conjugii  uostri  vieinor,  I'ive  ct  vale.  Tiberius 
in  dissimulation,  as  Tacitus  saith  of  him  :  lam  Tiberium  vires 
et  corpus,  non  dissininlatio,  deserebant.  Vespasian  in  a  jest, 
sitting  upon  the  stool  :  Ut  puto  Dens  fio.  Galba  with  a  sen- 
tence, Feri,  si  ex  re  sit  popnli  Roniani,  holding  forth  his  neck. 
Septimius  Severus  in  dispatch  :  Adeste  si  q7iid  miJii  restai 
agendmn.  And  the  like.  Certainly  the  Stoics  bestowed  too 
much  cost  upon  death,  and  by  their  great  preparations  made 
it  appear  more  fearful.  Better,  saith  he,  qni  finevi  vitcs  ex- 
treninm  inter  mnnera  ponat  Xatm-ee.  It  is  as  natural  to  die 
as  to  be  born  ;  and  to  a  litde  infant,  perhaps,  the  one  is  as 
painful  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  in  an  earnest  pursuit  is 
like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot  blood  ;  who,  for  the  time, 
scarce  feels  the  hurt ;  and  therefore  a  mind  fixed  and  bent 
upon  somewhat  that  is  good  doth  avert  the  dolours  of  death. 
lUit  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is  Xiine  diniit- 
tis ;  when  a  man  hath  obtained  worthy  ends  and  expectations. 
Death  hath  this  also,  that  it  openeth  the  gate  to  good  fame, 
and  extinguisheth  envy.    Extinetns  amabitnr  idem. 


34  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

OF  ADVERSITY 

(1625) 

It  was  an  high  speech  of  Seneca  (after  the  manner  of  the 
Stoics)  :  That  the  good  things  tvJiich  belong  to  p7-ospe7'ity  arc 
to  be  wisJicd ;  but  the  good  tilings  that  belong  to  adversity 
are  to  be  admired.  Bona  rernni  see7indarujn  optabilia,  adver- 
sarnin  niirabilia.  Certainly,  if  miracles  be  the  command  over 
nature,  they  appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a  higher  speech 
of  his  than  the  other  (much  too  high  for  a  heathen)  :  //  is 
true  greatness  to  Jiave  in  one  the  frailty  of  a  man,  and  the 
seenrity  of  a  god.  Vere  magnnni  Jiabere  fragilitatem  hominis, 
secjiritateni  dei.  This  would  have  done  better  in  poesy,  where 
transcendences  are  more  allowed.  And  the  poets  indeed  have 
been  busy  with  it ;  for  it  is  in  effect  the  thing  which  is  figured 
in  that  strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets,  which  seemeth  not 
to  be  without  mystery ;  nay,  and  to  have  some  approach  to  the 
state  of  a  Christian  :  that  Hercules,  when  he  ivent  to  unbind 
Prometheus  (by  whom  human  nature  is  represented),  sailed  the 
length  of  the  great  ocean  in  an  earthen  pot  or  pitcher :  lively 
describing  Christian  resolution,  that  saileth  in  the  frail  bark  of 
the  flesh  thorough  the  waves  of  the  world.  But  to  speak  in  a 
mean.  The  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance  ;  the  virtue  of 
adversity  is  fortitude  ;  which  in  morals  is  the  more  heroical 
virtue.  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament ;  ad- 
versity is  the  blessing  of  the  New ;  which  carrieth  the  greater 
benediction,  and  the  clearer  revelation  of  God's  favour.  Yet 
even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you 
shall  hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols  ;  and  the  pencil 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  laboured  more  in  describing  the  afflic- 
tions of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Salomon.  Prosperity  is  not 
without  many  fears  and  distastes  ;  and  adversity  is  not  without 
comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  needleworks  and  embroid- 
eries, it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  and 
solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy  work 
upon  a  lightsome  ground  :  judge  therefore  of  the  pleasure  of 


SIR   FRANCIS   BACON  35 

the  heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like 
precious  odours,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or 
crushed  :  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice  ;  but  adversity 
doth  best  discover  virtue. 


OF  ENVY 

(1625) 

There  be  none  of  the  affections  which  have  been  noted  to 
fascinate  or  bewitch,  but  love  and  envy.  They  both  have  vehe- 
ment wishes  ;  they  frame  themselves  readily  into  imaginations 
and  suggestions ;  and  they  come  easily  into  the  eye,  espe- 
cially upon  the  presence  of  the  objects  ;  which  are  the  points 
that  conduce  to  fascination,  if  any  such  thing  there  be.  We 
see  likewise  the  Scripture  calleth  envy  an  evil  eye ;  and  the 
astrologers  call  the  evil  influences  of  the  stars  evil  aspects ; 
so  that  still  there  seemeth  to  be  acknowledged,  in  the  act  of 
envy,  an  ejaculation  or  irradiation  of  the  eye.  Nay,  some  have 
been  so  curious  as  to  note,  that  the  times  when  the  stroke  or 
percussion  of  an  envious  eye  doth  most  hurt,  are  when  the 
party  envied  is  beheld  in  glory  or  triumph  ;  for  that  sets  an 
edge  upon  envy  ;  and  besides,  at  such  times  the  spirits  of  the 
person  envied  do  come  forth  most  into  the  outward  parts,  and 
so  meet  the  blow. 

But  leaving  these  curiosities  (though  not  unworthy  to  be 
thought  on  in  fit  place),  we  will  handle,  what  persons  are  apt 
to  enxy  others  ;  what  persons  are  most  subject  to  be  envied 
themselves ;  and  what  is  the  difference  between  public  and 
private  envy. 

A  man  that  hath  no  virtue  in  himself  ever  envieth  virtue 
in  others.  For  men's  minds  will  either  feed  upon  their  own 
good  or  upon  others'  evil ;  and  who  wanteth  the  one  will  prey 
upon  the  other  ;  and  whoso  is  out  of  hope  to  attain  to  an- 
other's virtue  will  seek  to  come  at  even  hand  by  depressing 
another's  fortune. 

A  man  that  is  busy  and    inquisitive   is   commonly  envious. 


36  THE  ENGLISH   FAMIEIAR  ESSAY 

I'^or  to  know  much  of  other  men's  matters  cannot  he  because 
all  that  ado  may  concern  his  own  estate ;  therefore  it  must 
needs  be  that  he  taketh  a  kind  of  play-pleasure  in  looking 
upon  the  fortunes  of  others.  Neither  can  he  that  mindeth  but 
his  own  business  find  much  matter  for  envy.  For  envy  is  a 
gadding  passion,  and  walketh  the  streets,  and  doth  not  keep 
home  :  A^ou  est  c?mos7cs,  qiiin  idem  sit  inalcvohis. 

Men  of  noble  birth  are  noted  to  be  envious  towards  new 
men  when  they  rise.  For  the  distance  is  altered  ;  and  it  is 
like  a  deceit  of  the  eye,  that  when  others  come  on  they  think 
themselves  go  back. 

Deformed  persons,  and  eunuchs,  and  old  men,  and  bas- 
tards, are  envious.  For  he  that  cannot  possibly  mend  his  own 
case  will  do  what  he  can  to  impair  another's  ;  except  these 
defects  light  upon  a  very  brave  and  heroical  nature,  which 
thinketh  to  make  his  natural  wants  part  of  his  honour  ;  in  that 
it  should  be  said,  that  an  eunuch,  or  a  lame  man,  did  such 
great  matters;  affecting  the  honour  of  a  miracle;  as  it  was  in 
Narses  the  eunucli,  and  Agesilaus  and  Tamberlanes,  that  were 
lame  men. 

The  same  is  the  case  of  men  that  rise  after  calamities  and 
misfortunes.  For  they  are  as  men  fallen  out  with  the  times, 
and  think  other  men's  harms  a  redemption  of  their  own 
sufferings. 

They  that  desire  to  excel  in  too  many  matters,  out  of  levity 
and  vain-glor)^,  are  ever  envious.  For  they  cannot  want  work  ; 
it  being  impossible  but  many  in  some  one  of  those  things 
should  surpass  them.  Which  was  the  character  of  Adrian  the 
Emperor,  that  mortally  envied  poets  and  painters  and  artificers 
in  works  wherein  he  had  a  vein  to  excel. 

Lastly,  near  kinsfolks,  and  fellows  in  office,  and  those  that 
have  been  bred  together,  are  more  apt  to  envy  their  equals 
when  they  are  raised.  For  it  doth  upbraid  unto  them  their 
own  fortunes,  and  pointeth  at  them,  and  cometh  oftener  into 
their  remembrance,  and  incurreth  likewise  more  into  the  note 
of  others  ;  rmd  envy  ever  redoubleth  from  speech  and  fame. 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  37 

Cain's  envy  was  the  more  vile  and  mali^^nant  towards  his 
brother  Abel,  because  when  his  sacrifice  was  better  accepted 
there  was  nobody  to  look  on.  Thus  much  for  those  that  arc 
apt  to  envy. 

Concerning  those  that  are  more  or  less  subject  to  envy  ; 
First,  persons  of  eminent  virtue,  when  they  are  advanced,  are 
less  envied.  For  their  fortune  scemcth  but  due  unto  them  ; 
and  no  man  envieth  the  payment  of  a  deljt,  but  rewards  and 
liberality  rather.  Again,  envy  is  ever  joined  with  the  comparing 
of  a  man's  self ;  and  where  there  is  no  comparison,  no  envy ; 
and  therefore  kings  are  not  envied  but  by  kings.  Nevertheless 
it  is  to  be  noted  that  unworthy  persons  are  most  envied  at  their 
first  coming  in,  and  afterwards  overcome  it  better ;  whereas, 
contrariwise,  persons  of  worth  and  merit  are  most  envied  when 
their  fortune  continueth  long.  For  by  that  time,  though  their 
virtue  be  the  same,  yet  it  hath  not  the  same  lustre ;  for  fresh 
men  grow  up  that  darken  it. 

Persons  of  noble  blood  are  less  envied  in  their  rising ;  for  it 
seemeth  but  right  done  to  their  birth.  Besides,  there  seemeth 
not  much  added  to  their  fortune  ;  and  envy  is  as  the  sunbeams, 
that  beat  hotter  upon  a  bank  or  steep  rising  ground,  than  upon 
a  flat.  And  for  the  same  reason  those  that  are  advanced  by 
degrees  are  less  envied  than  those  that  are  advanced  suddenly 
and  per  saltmn. 

Those  that  have  joined  with  their  honour  great  travails, 
cares,  or  perils,  arc  less  subject  to  envy.  For  men  think  that 
they  earn  their  honours  hardly,  and  pity  them  sometimes ;  and 
pity  ever  healeth  envy.  Wherefore  you  shall  observe  that  the 
more  deep  and  sober  sort  of  politic  persons,  in  their  greatness, 
are  ever  bemoaning  themselves,  what  a  life  they  lead  ;  chanting 
a  qna7ita  patimtt7'.  Not  that  they  feel  it  so,  but  only  to  abate 
the  edge  of  envy.  But  this  is  to  be  understood  of  business  that 
is  laid  upon  men,  and  not  such  as  they  call  unto  themselves. 
For  nothing  incrcascth  envy  more  than  an  unnecessary  and  am- 
bitious engrossing  of  business.  And  nothing  doth '  extinguish 
envy  more  than  for  a  great  person  to  preserve  all  other  inferior 


38  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH^IAR  ESSAY 

officers  in  their  full  rights  and  pre-eminences  of  their  places. 
For  by  that  means  there  be  so  many  screens  between  him 
and  envy. 

Above  all,  those  are  most  subject  to  envy,  which  carry  the 
greatness  of  their  fortunes  in  an  insolent  and  proud  manner ; 
being  never  well  but  while  they  are  shewing  how  great  they 
are,  either  by  outward  pomp,  or  by  triumphing  over  all  oppo- 
sition or  competition  ;  whereas  wise  men  will  rather  do  sacri- 
fice to  envy,  in  suffering  themselves  sometimes  of  purpose  to 
be  crossed  and  overborne  in  things  that  do  not  much  concern 
them.  Notwithstanding,  so  much  is  true,  that  the  carriage  of 
greatness  in  a  plain .  and  open  manner  (so  it  be  w'ithout  arro- 
gancy  and  vain-glory)  doth  draw  less  envy  than  if  it  be  in  a 
more  crafty  and  cunning  fashion.  For  in  that  course  a  man 
doth  but  disavow  fortune  ;  and  seemeth  to  be  conscious  of  his 
own  want  in  worth  ;  and  doth  but  teach  others  to  envy  him. 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  part ;  as  we  said  in  the  beginning 
that  the  act  of  envy  had  somewhat  in  it  of  witchcraft,  so  there 
is  no  other  cure  of  envy  but  the  cure  of  witchcraft ;  and  that 
is,  to  remove  the  lot  (as  they  call  it)  and  to  lay  it  upon  another. 
For  which  purpose,  the  wiser  sort  of  great  persons  bring  in 
ever  upon  the  stage  somebody  upon  whom  to  derive  the  envy 
that  would  come  upon  themselves  ;  sometimes  upon  ministers 
and  servants  ;  sometimes  upon  colleagues  and  associates  ;  and 
the  like ;  and  for  that  turn  there  are  never  wanting  some 
persons  of  violent  and  undertaking  natures,  who,  so  they  may 
have  power  and  business,  will  take  it  at  any  cost. 

Now  to  speak  of  public  env3^  There  is  yet  some  good  in 
public  envy,  whereas  in  private  there  is  none.  For  public 
envy  is  as  an  ostracism,  that  cclipseth  men  when  they  grow- 
too  great.  And  therefore  it  is  a  bridle  also  to  great  ones,  to 
keep  them  within  bounds. 

This  envy,  being  in  the  Latin  word  invidia,  goeth  in  the 
modern  languages  by  the  name  of  discoiitoitjuent ;  of  which 
we  shall  speak  in  handling  Sedition.  It  is  a  disease  in  a  state 
like  to  infection.    For  as  infection  spreadeth  upon  that  which 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  39 

is  sound,  and  tainteth  it ;  so  wlicn  envy  is  gotten  once  into  a 
state,  it  traduceth  even  the  best  actions  thereof,  and  turneth 
them  into  an  ill  odour.  And  therefore  there  is  little  won  by 
intermingling  of  plausible  actions.  For  that  cloth  argue  but  a 
weakness  and  fear  of  envy,  which  hurteth  so  much  the  more  ; 
as  it  is  likewise  usual  in  infections  ;  which  if  you  fear  them, 
you  call  them  upon  you. 

This  public  envy  seemeth  to  beat  chiefly  upon  principal 
officers  or  ministers,  rather  than  upon  kings  and  estates  them- 
selves. But  this  is  a  sure  rule,  that  if  the  envy  upon  the  min- 
ister be  great,  when  the  cause  of  it  in  him  is  small ;  or  if 
the  envy  be  general  in  a  manner  upon  all  the  ministers  of  an 
estate  ;  then  the  envy  (though  hidden)  is  truly  upon  the  state 
itself.  And  so  much  of  public  envy  or  discontentment,  and 
the  difference  thereof  from  private  envy,  which  was  handled 
in  the  first  place. 

We  will  add  this  in  general  touching  the  affection  of  en\^, 
that  of  all  other  affections  it  is  the  most  importune  and  con- 
tinual. For  of  other  affections  there  is  occasion  given  but  now 
and  then  ;  and  therefore  it  was  well  said,  Invidia  festos  dies 
non  agit :  for  it  is  ever  working  upon  some  or  other.  And  it 
is  also  noted  that  love  and  envy  do  make  a  man  pine,  which 
other  affections  do  not,  because  they  are  not  so  continual.  It 
is  also  the  vilest  affection,  and  the  most  depraved  ;  for  which 
cause  it  is  the  proper  attribute  of  the  devil,  who  is  called  TJic 
envious  man,  that  sozveth  tares  amongst  the  wheat  by  nigJit ; 
as  it  always  cometh  to  pass,  that  envy  worketh  subtilly,  and 
in  the  dark,  and  to  the  prejudice  of  good  things,  such  as  is 
the  wheat. 

OF  TRAVEL 

(1625) 

Travel,  in  the  younger  sort,  is  a  part  of  education ;  in  the 
elder,  a  part  of  experience.  He  that  travelleth  into  a  country 
before  he  hath  some  entrance  into  the  language,  goeth  to 
school,    and    not    to    travel.    That   young    men    travel    under 


40  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

some  tutor,  or  grave  servant,  I  allow  well ;  so  that  he  be 
such  a  one  that  hath  the  language  and  hath  been  in  the 
country  before  ;  whereby  he  may  be  able  to  tell  them  what 
things  are  worthy  to  be  seen  in  the  country  where  they  go  ; 
what  acquaintances  they  are  to  seek  ;  what  exercises  or  dis- 
cii^line  the  place  yieldeth.  For  else  young  men  shall  go 
hooded,  and  look  abroad  little.  It  is  a  strange  thing,  that 
in  sea-voyages,  where  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  sky  and 
sea,  men  should  make  diaries  ;  but  in  land-travel,  wherein  so 
much  is  to  be  observed,  for  the  most  part  they  omit  it ;  as 
if  chance  were  fitter  to  be  registered  than  observation.  Let 
diaries  therefore  be  brought  in  use.  The  things  to  be  seen 
and  observed  are  :  the  courts  of  princes,  specially  when  they 
give  audience  to  ambassadors ;  the  courts  of  justice,  while 
they  sit  and  hear  causes ;  and  so  of  consistories  ecclesiastic ; 
the  churches  and  monasteries,  with  the  monuments  which  are 
therein  extant ;  the  walls  and  fortifications  of  cities  and  towns, 
and  so  the  havens  and  harbours  ;  antiquities  and  ruins  ;  libra- 
ries ;  colleges,  disputations,  and  lectures,  where  any  are  ;  ship- 
ping and  navies  ;  houses  and  gardens  of  state  and  pleasure, 
near  great  cities  ;  armories  ;  arsenals  ;  magazines  ;  exchanges' ; 
bourses  ;  warehouses  ;  exercises  of  horsemanship,  fencing, 
training  of  soldiers,  and  the  like  ;  comedies,  such  whereunto 
the  better  sort  of  persons  do  resort ;  treasuries  of  jewels  and 
robes  ;  cabinets  and  rarities  ;  and,  to  conclude,  whatsoever  is 
memorable  in  the  places  where  they  go.  After  all  which  the 
tutors  or  servants  ought  to  make  diligent  inquiry.  As  for 
triumphs,  masques,  feasts,  weddings,  funerals,  capital  execu- 
tions, and  such  shows,  men  need  not  to  be  put  in  mind  of  them ; 
yet  are  they  not  to  be  neglected.  If  you  will  have  a  young 
man  to  put  his  travel  into  a  little  room,  and  in  short  time  to 
gather  much,  this  you  must  do.  hirst,  as  was  said,  he  must 
have  some  entrance  into  the  language,  before  he  goeth.  Then 
he  must  have  such  a  servant  or  tutor  as  knoweth  the  country, 
as  was  likewise  said.  Let  him  carry  with  him  also  some  card 
or  book   describing  the   country  where   he  travelleth ;   which 


SIR  FRANCIS   I!AC:ON  41 

will  be  a  good  key  to  his  enquiry.  Let  him  keep  also  a  diary. 
Let  him  not  stay  long  in  one  eity  or  town  ;  more  or  less  as 
the  place  deserveth,  but  not  long ;  nay,  when  he  stayeth  in 
one  city  or  town,  let  him  change  his  lodging  from  one  end 
and  part  of  the  town  to  another ;  which  is  a  great  adamant  of 
acquaintance.  Let  him  sequester  himself  from  the  company 
of  his  countrymen,  and  diet  in  such  places  where  there  is 
good  company  of  the  nation  where  he  travelleth.  Let  him, 
upon  his  removes  from  one  place  to  another,  procure  recom- 
mendation to  some  person  of  quality  residing  in  the  place 
whither  he  removeth ;  that  he  may  use  his  favour  in  those 
things  he  desireth  to  see  or  know.  Thus  he  may  abridge  his 
travel  with  much  profit.  As  for  the  acquaintance  which  is  to 
be  sought  in  travel ;  that  which  is  most  of  all  profitable  is 
acquaintance  with  the  secretaries  and  employed  men  of  am- 
bassadors ;  for  so  in  travelling  in  one  country  he  shall  suck 
the  experience  of  many.  Let  him  also  see  and  visit  eminent 
persons  in  all  kinds,  which  are  of  great  name  abroad  ;  that 
he  may  be  able  to  tell  how  the  life  agreeth  with  the  fame, 
h^or  quarrels,  they  are  with  care  and  discretion  to  be  avoided  : 
they  are  commonly  for  mistresses,  healths,  place,  and  words. 
And  let  a  man  beware  how  he  keepeth  company  with  choleric 
and  quarrelsome  persons  ;  for  they  will  engage  him  into  their 
own  quarrels.  When  a  traveller  returneth  home,  let  him  not 
leave  the  countries  where  he  hath  travelled  altogether  behind 
him,  but  maintain  a  correspondence  by  letters  with  those  of 
his  acquaintance  which  are  of  most  worth.  And  let  his  travel 
appear  rather  in  his  discourse  than  in  his  apparel  or  gesture  ; 
and  in  his  discourse  let  him  be  rather  advised  in  his  answers 
than  forward  to  tell  stories  ;  and  let  it  appear  that  he  doth 
not  change  his  country  manners  for  those  of  foreign  parts, 
but  only  prick  in  some  flowers  of  that  he  hath  learned  abroad 
into  the  customs  of  his  own  country. 


42  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

OF  FRIENDSHIP 

(1625) 

It  had  been  hard  for  him  that  spake  it  to  have  put  more 
truth  and  untruth  together  in  a  few  words,  than  in  that  speech, 
Whosoever  is  delighted  in  solitude  is  either  a  wild  beast  or  a 
god.  For  it  is  most  true  that  a  natural  and  secret  hatred  and 
aversation  towards  society  in  any  man,  hath  somewhat  of  the 
savage  beast ;  but  it  is  most  untrue  that  it  should  have  any 
character  at  all  of  the  divine  nature  ;  except  it  proceed,  not 
out  of  a  pleasure  in  solitude,  but  out  of  a  love  and  desire  to 
sequester  a  man's  self  for  a  higher  conversation  :  such  as  is 
found  to  have  been  falsely  and  feignedly  in  some  of  the 
heathen  ;  as  Epimenides  the  Candian,  Numa  the  Roman, 
Empedocles  the  Sicilian,  and  Apollonius  of  Tyana  ;  and  truly 
and  really  in  divers  of  the  ancient  hermits  and  holy  fathers  of 
the  church.  Ikit  little  do  men  perceive  what  solitude  is,  and 
how  far  it  extendeth.  For  a  crowd  is  not  company,  and  faces 
are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures,  and  talk  but  a  tinkling  cymbal, 
where  there  is  no  love.  The  Latin  adage  meeteth  with  it  a 
little,  Magna  civitas,  magna  solitude ;  because  in  a  great 
town  friends  are  scattered  ;  so  that  there  is  not  that  fellowship, 
for  the  most  part,  which  is  in  less  neighbourhoods.  But  we 
may  go  further,  and  affirm  most  truly  that  it  is  a  mere  and 
miserable  solitude  to  want  true  friends,  without  which  the 
world  is  but  a  wilderness  ;  and  even  in  this  sense  also  of  soli- 
tude, whosoever  in  the  frame  of  his  nature  and  affections  is 
unfit  for  friendship,  he  takcth  it  of  the  beast,  and  not  from 
humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease  and  discharge  of 
the  fulness  and  swellings  of  the  heart,  which  passions  of  all 
kinds  do  cause  and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of  stoppings 
and  suffocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in  the  body ;  and  it 
is  not  much  otherwise  in  the  mind  :  you  may  take  sarza  to 
open  the  liver,  steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flower  of  sulphur  for 
the   lungs,  castoreum   for  the  brain  ;  but   no  receipt  openeth 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  43 

the  heart,  but  a  true  friend,  to  whom  you  may  impart  griefs, 
joys,  fears,  hopes,  suspicions,  counsels,  and  whatsoever  heth 
upon  tlie  heart  to  oppress  it,  in  a  kind  of  civdl  shrift  or 
confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a  rate  great  kings 
and  monarchs  do  set  upon  this  fruit  of  friendship  whereof  we 
speak  :  so  great,  as  they  purchase  it  many  times  at  the  hazard 
of  their  own  safety  and  greatness.  For  princes,  in  regard  of 
the  distance  of  their  fortune  from  that  of  their  subjects  and 
servants,  cannot  gather  this  fruit,  except  (to  make  themselves 
capable  thereof)  they  raise  some  persons  to  be  as  it  were  com- 
panions and  almost  equals  to  themselves,  which  many  times 
sorteth  to  inconvenience.  The  modern  languages  give  unto 
such  persons  the  name  of  favourites,  or  privadoes  ;  as  if  it 
were  matter  of  grace,  or  conversation.  But  the  Roman  name 
attaineth  the  true  use  and  cause  thereof,  naming  them  pai'- 
ticipcs  curantui  ;  for  it  is  that  which  tieth  the  knot.  And  we 
see  plainly  that  this  hath  been  done,  not  by  weak  and  passion- 
ate princes  only,  but  by  the  wisest  and  most  politic  that  ever 
reigned  ;  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to  themselves  some  of 
their  servants,  whom  both  themselves  have  called  friends,  and 
allowed  others  likewise  to  call  them  in  the  same  manner, 
using  the  word  which  is  received  betw^een  private  men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised  Pompey  (after 
surnamed  the  (ireat)  to  that  height,  that  Pompey  vaunted  him- 
self for  Sylla's  overmatch.  For  when  he  had  carried  the  con- 
sulship for  a  friend  of  his,  against  the  pursuit  of  Sylla,  and 
that  Sylla  did  a  little  resent  thereat,  and  began  to  speak  great, 
Pompey  turned  upon  him  again,  and  in  effect  bade  him  be 
quiet ;  for  that  more  men  adored  the  sun  7-ising  than  the  sun 
setting.  With  Julius  Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained 
that  interest,  as  he  set  him  down  in  his  testament  for  heir  in 
remainder  after  his  nephew.  And  this  was  the  man  that  had 
power  with  him  to  draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when 
Caesar  would  have  discharged  the  senate,  in  regard  of  some 
ill  presages,  and  specially  a  dream  of  Calpurnia,  this  man  lifted 


44  'THK  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

liim  gently  by  the  arm  out  of  his  chair,  telhni^  him  he  hoped 
he  would  not  dismiss  the  senate  till  his  wife  had  dreamt  a  better 
dream.  And  it  seemeth  his  favour  was  so  great,  as  Antonius, 
in  a  letter  which  is  recited  verbatim  in  one  of  Cicero's  Phil- 
ippics, calleth  him  I'ciicfica,  "witch"  ;  as  if  he  had  enchanted 
C:csar.  Augustus  raised  Agrippa  (though  of  mean  birth)  to 
that  height,  as,  when  he  consulted  with  McCcenas  about  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter  Julia,  Maecenas  took  the  liberty  to 
tell  him,  tJiat  he  must  cither  marry  his  daughter  to  Agrippa, 
or  take  away  his  life ;  there  was  no  tJiii^i  way,  he  Jiad  made 
him  so  great.  With  Tiberius  Ciusar,  Sejanus  had  ascended  to 
that  height,  as  they  two  were  termed  and  reckoned  as  a  pair 
of  friends.  Tiberius  in  a  letter  to  him  saith,  Hcce  pro  amicitid 
nostra  non  oceultavi ;  and  the  whole  senate  dedicated  an  altar 
to  Friendship,  as  to  a  goddess,  in  respect  of  the  great  dear- 
ness  of  friendship  between  them  two.  The  like  or  more  was 
between  Septimius  Severus  and  Tlautianus.  For  he  forced  his 
eldest  son  to  marry  the  daughter  of  Plautianus  ;  and  would 
often  maintain  Plautianus  in  doing  affronts  to  his  son  ;  and 
did  write  also  in  a  letter  to  the  senate  by  these  words  :  /  love 
the  man  so  well,  as  I  wish  he  may  over-live  me.  Now  if  these 
princes  had  been  as  a  Trajan,  or  a  Marcus  Aurelius,  a  man 
might  have  thought  that  this  had  proceeded  of  an  abundant 
goodness  of  nature  ;  but  being  men  so  wise,  for  such  strength 
and  severity  of  mind,  and  so  extreme  lovers  of  themselves,  as 
all  these  were,  it  proveth  most  plainly  that  they  found  their  own 
felicity  (though  as  great  as  ever  happened  to  mortal  men)  but 
as  an  half  piece,  except  they  mought  have  a  friend  to  make  it 
entire  :  and  yet,  which  is  more,  they  were  princes  that  had 
wives,  sons,  nephews  ;  and  yet  all  these  could  not  supply  the 
comfort  of  friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  what  Comincus  obscrveth  of  his 
first  master,  Duke  Charles  the  Mardy  ;  namely,  that  he  would 
communicate  his  secrets  with  none,  and  least  of  all,  those 
secrets  which  troubled  him  most.  Whereupon  he  goeth  on 
and  saith  that  towards  his  latter  time  that  closeness-  did  impair 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  45 

and  a  little  perish  his  nnderstaiuiiiig.  Surely  Comincus  mought 
have  made  the  same  judgment  also,  if  it  had  pleased  him,  of 
his  second  master,  Lewis  the  Eleventh,  whose  closeness  was 
indeed  his  tormentor.  The  parable  of  Pythagoras  is  dark, 
but  true ;  Cor  nc  edito,  "  Eat  not  the  heart."  Certainly,  if 
a  man  would  give  it  a  hard  phrase,  those  that  want  friends 
to  open  themselves  unto  are  cannibals  of  their  own  hearts. 
But  one  thing  is  most  admirable  (wherewith  I  will  conclude 
this  first  fruit  of  friendship),  which  is,  that  this  communicating 
of  a  man's  self  to  his  friend  works  two  contrary  effects  ;  for 
it  redoubleth  joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halfs.  For  there  is 
no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the 
more  ;  and  no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but 
he  grievcth  the  less.  So  that  it  is  in  truth  of  operation  upon 
a  man's  mind,  of  like  virtue  as  the  alchymists  use  to  attribute 
to  their  stone  for  man's  body,  that  it  worketh  all  contrary 
effects,  but  still  to  the  good  and  benefit  of  nature.  But  yet, 
without  praying  in  aid  of  alchymists,  there  is  a  manifest  image 
of  this  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  For  in  bodies,  union 
strengtheneth  and  cherisheth  any  natural  action  ;  and  on  the 
other  side  weakeneth  and  duUeth  any  violent  impression  :  and 
even  so  is  it  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful  and  sovereign 
for  the  understanding,  as  the  first  is  for  the  affections.  For 
friendship  maketh  indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections,  from 
storm  and  tempests ;  but  it  maketh  daylight  in  the  under- 
standing, out  of  darkness  and  confusion  of  thoughts.  Neither 
is  this  to  be  understood  only  of  faithful  counsel,  which  a  man 
receiveth  from  his  friend  ;  but  before  you  come  to  that,  certain 
it  is  that  whosoever  hath  his  mind  fraught  with  many  thoughts, 
his  wits  and  understanding  do  clarify  and  break  up,  in  the 
communicating  and  discoursing  with  another  ;  he  tosseth  his 
thoughts  more  easily ;  he  marshalleth  them  more  orderly ;  he 
seeth  how  they  look  when  they  are  turned  into  words  ;  finally, 
he  waxeth  wiser  than  himself ;  and  that  more  by  an  hour's 
discourse  than  by  a  day's   meditation.    It  was    well   said  by 


46  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Themistocles  to  the  king  of  Persia,  that  speech  ivas  like  clotJi 
of  Arras,  opened'  and  pit t  abroad,  ivhereby  tlie  imagery  doth 
appear  in  figure  ;  zahereas  in  thonghts  they  lie  but  as  in  packs. 
Neither  is  this  second  fruit  of  friendship,  in  opening  the  under- 
standing, restrained  only  to  sucli  friends  as  are  able  to  give 
a  man  counsel  (they  indeed  are  best)  ;  but  even  without  that, 
a  man  learneth  of  himself,  and  bringeth  his  own  thoughts  to 
light,  and  whctteth  his  wits  as  against  a  stone,  which  itself  cuts 
not.  In  a  word,  a  man  were  better  relate  himself  to  a  statua 
or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts  to  pass  in  smother. 

Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friendship  complete, 
that  other  point,  which  lieth  more  open  and  falleth  within  vul- 
gar observation  ;  which  is  faithful  counsel  from  a  friend.  Hera- 
clitus  saith  well  in  one  of  his  enigmas.  Dry  light  is  ever  the 
best.  And  certain  it  is  that  the  light  that  a  man  receiveth  by 
counsel  from  another  is  drier  and  purer  than  that  which  cometh 
from  his  own  understanding  and  judgment ;  which  is  ever  in- 
fused and  drenched  in  his  affections  and  customs.  So  as  there 
is  as  much  difference  between  the  counsel  that  a  friend  giveth, 
and  that  a  man  giveth  himself,  as  there  is  between  the  counsel 
of  a  friend  and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there  is  no  such  flatterer  as 
is  a  man's  self  ;  and  there  is  no  such  remedy  against  flattery 
of  a  man's  self  as  the  liberty  of  a  friend.  Counsel  is  of  two 
sorts  ;  the  one  concerning  manners,  the  other  concerning  busi- 
ness. For  the  first,  the  best  preservative  to  keep  the  mind  in 
health  is  the  faithful  admonition  of  a  friend.  The  calling  of 
a  man's  self  to  a  strict  account  is  a  medicine,  sometime,  too 
piercing  and  corrosive.  Reading  good  books  of  morality  is  a 
little  flat  and  dead.  Observing  our  faults  in  others  is  some- 
times improper  for  our  case.  But  the  best  receipt  (best,  I  say, 
to  work,  and  best  to  take)  is  the  admonition  of  a  friend.  It 
is  a  strange  thing  to  behold  what  gross  errors  and  extreme 
absurdities  many  (especially  of  the  greater  sort)  do  commit, 
for  want  of  a  friend  to  tell  them  of  them,  to  the  great  damage 
both  of  their  fame  and  fortune.  For,  as  St.  James  saith,  they 
are  as  men  that  look  sonictivies  into  a  glass,   and  presently 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  47 

forget  their  oivji  shape  and  favour.  As  for  business,  a  man  may 
think,  if  he  will,  that  two  eyes  see  no  more  than  one  ;  or  that 
a  gamester  seeth  always  more  than  a  looker-on  ;  or  that  a  man 
in  anger  is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath  said  over  the  four  and 
twenty  letters  ;  or  that  a  musket  may  be  shot  off  as  well  upon 
the  arm  as  upon  a  rest ;  and  such  other  fond  and  high  imagi- 
nations, to  think  himself  all  in  all.  But  when  all  is  done,  the 
help  of  good  counsel  is  that  which  setteth  business  straight. 
And  if  any  man  think  that  he  will  take  counsel,  but  it  shall 
be-  by  pieces  —  asking  counsel  in  one  business  of  one  man,  and 
in  another  business  of  another  man  —  it  is  well  (that  is  to  say, 
l^etter  perhaps  than  if  he  asked  none  at  all)  ;  but  he  runneth 
two  dangers  ;  one,  that  he  shall  not  be  faithfully  counselled ; 
for  it  is  a  rare  thing,  except  it  be  from  a  perfect  and  entire 
friend,  to  have  counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be  bowed  and 
crooked  to  some  ends  w^hich  he  hath  that  giveth  it.  The  other, 
that  he  shall  have  counsel  given,  hurtful  and  unsafe  (though 
with  good  meaning),  and  mixed  partly  of  mischief  and  partly 
of  remedy  ;  even  as  if  you  would  call  a  physician  that  is  thought 
good  for  the  cure  of  the  disease  you  complain  of,  but  is  un- 
acquainted with  your  body ;  and  therefore  may  put  you  in  way 
for  a  present  cure,  but  overthroweth  your  health  in  some  other 
kind  ;  and  so  cure  the  disease  and  kill  the  patient.  But  a  friend 
that  is  wholly  acquainted  with  a  man's  estate  wdll  beware,  by 
furthering  any  present  business,  how  he  dasheth  upon  other 
inconvenience.  And  therefore  rest  not  upon  scattered  counsels  ; 
they  will  rather  distract  and  mislead  than  settle  and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship  (peace  in  the 
affections,  and  support  of  the  judgment)  followeth  the  last  fruit, 
which  is  like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many  kernels  ;  I  mean 
aid  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions  and  occasions.  Here  the 
best  way  to  represent  to  life  the  manifold  use  of  friendship  is 
to  cast  and  see  how  many  things  there  are  which  a  man  can- 
not do  himself ;  and  then  it  will  appear  that  it  was  a  sparing 
speech  of  the  ancients,  to  say,  that  a  fnend  is  another  Jiiniself ; 
for  that  a  friend  is  far  more  than  himself.    Men  have  their 


48  THE  ENGLISH    FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

time,  and  die  many  times  in  desire  of  some  tilings  which  they 
principally  take  to  heart ;  the  bestowing  of  a  child,  the  finish- 
ing of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man  have  a  true  friend,  he 
may  rest  almost  secure  that  the  care  of  those  things  will  con- 
tinue after  him.  So  that  a  man  hath  as  it  were  two  lives  in 
his  desires.  A  man  hath  a  body,  and  that  body  is  confined  to 
a  place ;  but  where  friendship  is,  all  offices  of  life  are  as  it 
were  granted  to  him  and  his  deputy.  For  he  may  exercise 
them  by  his  friend.  How  many  things  are  there  which  a  man 
cannot,  with  any  face  or  comeliness,  say  or  do  himself !  A  man 
can  scarce  allege  his  own  merits  with  modesty,  much  less  extol 
them  ;  a  man  cannot  sometimes  brook  to  supplicate  or  beg ; 
and  a  number  of  the  like.  But  all  these  things  are  graceful 
in  a  friend's  mouth,  which  are  blushing  in  a  man's  own.  So 
again,  a  man's  person  hath  many  proper  relations  which  he 
cannot  put  off.  A  man  cannot  speak  to  his  son  but  as  a  father ; 
to  his  wife  but  as  a  husband  ;  to  his  enemy  but  upon  terms  : 
whereas  a  friend  may  speak  as  the  case  requires,  and  not  as  it 
sorteth  with  the  person.  But  to  enumerate  these  things  were 
endless  ;  I  have  given  the  rule,  where  a  man  cannot  fitly  play 
his  own  part  ;  if  he  have  not  a  friend,  he  may  quit  the  stage. 

OF  PLANTATIONS 

(1625) 

Plantations  are  amongst  ancient,  |)rimitive,  and  heroical 
works.  When  the  world  was  young,  it  begat  more  children  ; 
but  now  it  is  old,  it  begets  fewer  :  for  I  may  justly  account 
new  plantations  to  be  the  children  of  former  kingdoms.  I  like 
a  plantation  in  a  pure  soil  ;  that  is,  where  people  are  not  dis- 
planted  to  the  end  to  plant  in  others.  P^or  else  it  is  rather 
an  extirpation  than  a  plantation.  Planting  of  countries  is  like 
planting  of  woods  ;  for  you  must  make  account  to  leese  almost 
twenty  years  profit,  and  expect  your  recompense  in  the  end. 
For  the  principal  thing  that  hath  been  the  destruction  of  most 
plantations,  hath  been  the  base  and  hasty  drawing  of  profit  in 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  49 

the  first  years.  It  is  true,  speedy  profit  is  not  to  be  neglected, 
as  far  as  may  stand  with  the  good  of  the  plantation,  but  no 
further.  It  is  a  shameful  and  unblessed  thing  to  take  the  scum 
of  people,  and  wicked  condemned  men,  to  be  the  people  with 
whom  you  plant :  and  not  only  so,  but  it  spoileth  the  planta- 
tion ;  for  they  will  ever  live  like  rogues,  and  not  fall  to  work, 
but  be  lazy,  and  do  mischief,  and  spend  victuals,  and  be  quickly 
weary,  and  then  certify  over  to  their  country  to  the  discredit  of 
the  plantation.  The  people  wherewith  you  plant  ought  to  be 
gardeners,  ploughmen,  labourers,  smiths,  carpenters,  joiners, 
fishermen,  fowlers,  with  some  few  apothecaries,  surgeons,  cooks, 
and  bakers.  In  a  country  of  plantation,  first  look  about,  what 
kind  of  victual  the  country  yields  of  itself  to  hand  ;  as  chest- 
nuts, walnuts,  pine-apples,  olives,  dates,  plums,  cherries,  wild 
honey,  and  the  like  ;  and  make  use  of  them.  Then  consider 
what  victual  or  esculent  things  there  are,  Which  grow  speedily, 
and  within  the  year ;  as  parsnips,  carrots,  turnips,  onions, 
radish,  artichokes  of  Hierusalem,  maize,  and  the  like.  For 
wheat,  barley,  and  oats,  they  ask  too  much  labour  ;  but  with 
pease  and  beans  you  may  begin,  both  because  they  ask  less 
labour,  and  because  they  serve  for  meat  as  well  as  for  bread. 
And  of  rice  likewise  cometh  a  great  increase,  and  it  is  a  kind 
of  meat.  Above  all,  there  ought  to  be  brought  store  of  biscuit, 
oat-meal,  flour,  meal,  and  the  like,  in  the  beginning,  till  bread 
may  be  had.  For  beasts  or  birds,  take  chiefly  such  as  are  least 
subject  to  diseases,  and  multiply  fastest ;  as  swine,  goats,  cocks, 
hens,  turkeys,  geese,  house-doves,  and  the  like.  The  victual  in 
plantations  ought  to  be  expended  almost  as  in  a  besieged  town ; 
that  is,  with  certain  allowance.  And  let  the  main  part  of  the 
ground  employed  to  gardens  or  corn  be  to  a  common  stock ; 
and  to  be  laid  in,  and  stored  up,  and  then  delivered  out  in 
proportion  ;  besides  some  spots  of  ground  that  any  particular 
person  will  manure  for  his  own  private.  Consider  likewise  what 
commodities  the  soil  where  the  plantation  is  doth  naturally 
yield,  that  they  may  some  way  help  to  defray  the  charge  of  the 
plantation  :  so  it  be  not,  as  was  said,  to  the  untimely  prejudice 


50  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  the  main  business,  as  it  hath  fared  with  tobacco  in  Virginia. 
Wood  commonly  aboundcth  but  too  much  ;  and  therefore  tim- 
ber is  fit  to  be  one.  If  there  be  iron  ore,  and  streams  where- 
upon to  set  the  mills,  iron  is  a  brave  commodity  where  wood 
aboundcth.  Making  of  bay-salt,  if  the  climate  be  proper  for  it, 
would  be  put  in  experience.  Growing  silk  likewise,  if  any  be, 
is  a  likely  commodity.  Pitch  and  tar,  where  store  of  firs  and 
pines  are,  will  not  fail.  So  drugs  and  sweet  woods,  where  they 
are,  cannot  but  yield  great  profit.  Soap-ashes  likewise,  and 
other  things  that  may  be  thought  of.  But  moil  not  too  much 
under  ground  ;  for  the  hope  of  mines  is  very  uncertain,  and 
useth  to  make  the  planters  lazy  in  other  things.  For  govern- 
ment, let  it  be  in  the  hands  of  one,  assisted  with  some  coun- 
sel ;  and  let  them  have  commission  to  exercise  martial  laws, 
with  some  limitation.  And  above  all,  let  men  make  that  profit 
of  being  in  the  wilderness,  as  they  have  God  always,  and  his 
service,  before  their  eyes.  Let  not  the  government  of  the 
plantation  depend  upon  too  many  counsellors  and  undertakers 
in  the  country  that  planteth,  but  upon  a  temperate  number ; 
and  let  those  be  rather  noblemen  and  gentlemen  than  mer- 
chants ;  for  they  look  ever  to  the  present  gain.  Let  there  be 
freedoms  from  custom,  till  the  plantation  be  of  strength  ;  and 
not  only  freedom  from  custom,  but  freedom  to  carry  their  com- 
modities where  they  may  make  their  best  of  them,  except  there 
be  some  special  cause  of  caution.  Cram  not  in  people,  by  send- 
ing too  fast  company  after  company  ;  but  rather  hearken  how 
they  waste,  and  send  supplies  proportionably  ;  but  so  as  the 
number  may  live  well  in  the  plantation,  and  not  Ijy  surcharge 
be  in  penury.  It  hath  been  a  great  endangering  to  the  health 
of  some  plantations,  that  they  have  built  along  the  sea  and 
rivers,  in  marish  and  unwholesome  grounds.  Therefore,  though 
you  begin  there,  to  avoid  carriage  and  other  like  discommodi- 
ties, yet  build  still  rather  upwards  from  the  streams  than  along. 
It  concerneth  likewise  the  health  of  the  plantation  that  they 
have  good  store  of  salt  with  them,  that  they  may  use  it  in  their 
victuals  when  it  shall  be  necessary.    If  you  plant  where  savages 


SIR  FRANCIS   BACON  51 

arc,  do  not  only  entertain  them  with  trifles  and  gingles  ;  but 
use  them  justly  and  graciously,  with  sufficient  guard  ne;verthc- 
less  :  and  do  not  win  their  favour  by  helping  them  to  invade 
their  enemies,  but  for  their  defence  it  is  not  amiss.  And  send 
oft  of  them  o\-er  to  the  country  that  plants,  that  they  may  see 
a  better  condition  than  their  own,  and  commend  it  when  they 
return.  When  the  plantation  grows  to  strength,  then  it  is  time 
to  plant  with  women  as  well  as  with  men  ;  that  the  plantation 
may  spread  into  generations,  and  not  be  ever  pieced  from 
without.  It  is  the  sinfullest  thing  in  the  world  to  forsake  or 
destitute  a  plantation  once  in  forwardness  :  for  besides  the 
dishonour,  it  is  the  guiltiness  of  blood  of  many  commiserable 
persons. 

OF  GARDENS 

(1625) 

God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden.  And  indeed  it  is  the 
purest  of  "human  pleasures.  It  is  the  greatest  refreshment  to 
the  spirits  of  man ;  wdthout  which  buildings  and  palaces  are 
but  gross  handyworks  :  and  a  man  shall  ever  see  that  when 
ages  grow  to  civility  and  elegancy,  men  come  to  build  stately 
sooner  than  to  garden  finely ;  as  if  gardening  were  the  greater 
perfection.  I  do  hold  it,  in  the  royal  ordering  of  gardens,  there 
ought  to  be  gardens  for  all  the  months  in  the  year ;  in  which 
severallv  things  of  beauty  may  be  then  in  season.  For  Decem- 
ber and  January,  and  the  latter  part  of  November,  you  must 
take  such  things  as  are  green  all  winter :  holly ;  ivy  ;  bays  ; 
juniper  ;  cypress-trees  ;  yew  ;  pine-apple-trees  ;  fir-trees  ;  rose- 
mary ;  lavender ;  periwinkle,  the  white,  the  purple,  and  the 
blue  ;  germander ;  flags  ;  orange-trees  ;  lemon-trees  ;  and  myr- 
tles, if  they  be  stoved  ;  and  sweet  marjoram,  w-arm  set.  There 
followeth,  for  the  latter  part  of  January  and  February,  the 
mezereon-tree  which  then  blossoms  ;  crocus  vernus,  both  the 
yellow  and  the  grey  ;  primroses  ;  anemones  ;  the  early  tulippa  ; 
hyacynthus  orientalis  ;  chamairis  ;  fritellaria.  For  March,  there 
come  violets,  specially  the  single  blue,  which  are  the  earliest ; 


52  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH^IAR  ESSAY 

the  yellow  daffodil ;  the  daisy  ;  the  almond-tree  in  blossom  ; 
the  peach-tree  in  blossom ;  the  cornelian-tree  in  blossom ;  sweet- 
briar.  In  April  follow  the  double  white  violet ;  the  wall-flower  ; 
the  stock-gilliflower  ;  the  cowslip  ;  flower-de-lices,  and  lilies  of 
all  natures ;  rosemary-flowers  ;  the  tulippa  ;  the  double  piony  ; 
the  pale  daffodil ;  the  French  honeysuckle  ;  the  cherry-tree  in 
blossom  ;  the  dammasin  and  plum-trees  in  blossom  ;  the  white 
thorn  in  leaf ;  the  lilac-tree.  In  May  and  June  come  pinks  of 
all  sorts  ;  specially  the  blush-pink  ;  roses  of  all  kinds,  except 
the  musk,  which  comes  later ;  honey-suckles ;  strawberries 
bugloss ;  columbine ;  the  French  marigold  ;  flos  Africanus 
cherry-tree  in  fruit ;  ribes  ;  figs  in  fruit ;  rasps  ;  vine  flowers 
lavender  in  flowers  ;  the  sweet  satyrian,  with  the  white  flower 
herba  muscaria ;  lilium  convallium  ;  the  apple-tree  in  blossom. 
In  July  come  gilliflowers  of  all  varieties  ;  musk-roses  ;  the  lime- 
tree  in  blossom  ;  early  pears  and  plums  in  fruit ;  genitings  ; 
quadlins.  In  August  come  plums  of  all  sorts  in  fruit ;  pears  ; 
apricocks  ;  berberries  ;  filberds  ;  musk-melons  ;  monks-hoods, 
of  all  colours.  In  September  come  grapes  ;  apples ;  poppies 
of  all  colours  ;  peaches  ;  melocotones  ;  nectarines  ;  cornelians  ; 
wardens  ;  quinces.  In  October  and  the  beginning  of  Novem- 
ber come  services ;  medlars  ;  bullises ;  roses  cut  or  removed 
to  come  late  ;  hollyoaks  ;  and  such  like.  These  particulars  are 
for  the  climate  of  London  ;  but  my  meaning  is  perceived,  that 
you  may  have  vcr pcrpctinnn,  as  the  place  affords. 

And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  far  sweeter  in  the  air 
(where  it  comes  and  goes,  like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in 
the  hand,  therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  delight,  than 
to  know  what  be  the  flowers  and  plants  that  do  best  perfume 
the  air.  Roses,  damask  and  red,  are  fast  flowers  of  their  smells; 
so  that  you  may  walk  by  a  whole  row  of  them,  and  find  noth- 
ing of  their  sweetness  ;  yea,  though  it  be  in  a  morning's  dew. 
Bays  likewise  yield  no  smell  as  they  grow,  Rosemary  little  ; 
nor  sweet  marjoram.  That  which  above  all  others  yields  the 
sweetest  smell  in  the  air,  is  the  violet,  specially  the  white 
double  violet,  which  comes  twice  a  year ;  about  the  middle  of 


SIR  IvRANCIS   IVVCON  53 

April,  and  aloout  Bartholomew-tide.  Next  to  that  is  the  musk- 
rose.  Then  the  strawberry-leaves  dying,  which  [yield]  a  most 
excellent  cordial  smell.  Then  the  flower  of  the  vines ;  it  is 
a  little  dust,  like  the  dust  of  a  bent,  which  grows  upon  the 
cluster  in  the  first  coming  forth.  Then  sweet-briar.  Then  wall- 
flowers, which  are  very  delightful  to  be  set  under  a  parlour  or 
lower  chamber  window.  Then  pinks  and  gilliflowers,  specially 
the  matted  pink  and  clove  gilliflower.  Then  the  flowers  of  the 
lime-tree.  Then  the  honeysuckles,  so  they  be  somewhat  afar 
off.  Of  beanflowers  I  speak  not,  because  they  are  field  flowers. 
r>ut  those  which  perfume  the  air  most  delightfully,  not  passed 
by  as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden  upon  and  crushed,  are  three  ; 
that  is,  burnet,  wild  thyme,  and  watermints.  Therefore  you  are 
to  set  whole  alleys  of  them,  to  have  the  pleasure  when  you 
walk  or  tread. 

For  gardens  (speaking  of  those  which  are  indeed  prince- 
like, as  we  have  done  of  buildings),  the  contents  ought  not 
well  to  be  under  thirty  acres  of  ground,  and  to  be  divided 
into  three  parts  :  a  green  in  the  entrance  ;  a  heath  or  desert  in 
the  going  forth  ;  and  the  main  garden  in  the  midst ;  besides 
alleys  on  both  sides.  And  I  like  well  that  four  acres  of  ground 
be  assigned  to  the  green  ;  six  to  the  heath  ;  four  and  four  to 
either  side  ;  and  twelve  to  the  main  garden.  The  green  hath 
two  pleasures  :  the  one,  because  nothing  is  more  pleasant  to 
the  eye  than  green  grass  kept  finely  shorn  ;  the  other,  because 
it  will  give  you  a  fair  alley  in  the  midst,  by  which  you  may 
go  in  front  upon  a  stately  hedge,  which  is  to  enclose  the 
garden.  Ikit  because  the  alley  will  be  long,  and,  in  great  heat 
of  the  year  or  day,  you  ought  not  to  buy  the  shade  in  the 
garden  by  going  in  the  sun  through  the  green,  therefore  }-ou 
are,  of  either  side  the  green,  to  plant  a  covert  alley,  upon  car- 
penter's work,  about  twelve  foot  in  height,  by  which  you  may 
go  in  shade  into  the  garden.  As  for  the  making  of  knots  or 
figures  with  divers  coloured  earths,  that  they  may  lie  under 
the  windows  of  the  house  on  that  side  which  the  garden 
stands,   they  be  but  toys  :  3-ou  may  see  as  good  sights  many 


54  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

times  in  tarts.  The  garden  is  best  to  be  square,  encompassed 
on  all  the  four  sides  with  a  stately  arched  hedge.  The  arches 
to  be  upon  pillars  of  carpenter's  work,  of  some  ten  foot  high 
and  six  foot  broad  ;  and  the  spaces  between  of  the  same  di- 
mension with  the  breadth  of  the  arch.  Over  the  arches  let 
there  be  an  entire  hedge  of  some  four  foot  high,  framed  also 
upon  carpenter's  work ;  and  upon  the  upper  hedge,  over  every 
arcli,  a  little  turret,  with  a  belly,  enough  to  receive  a  cage  of 
birds  ;  and  over  every  space  between  the  arches  some  other 
little  figure,  with  broad  plates  of  round  coloured  glass,  gilt,  for 
the  sun  to  play  upon.  But  this  hedge  I  intend  to  be  raised 
upon  a  bank,  not  steep,  but  gently  slope,  of  some  six  foot,  set 
all  with  flowers.  Also  I  understand  that  this  square  of  the 
garden  should  not  be  the  whole  breadth  of  the  ground,  but  to 
leave  on  either  side  ground  enough  for  diversity  of  side  alleys  ; 
unto  which  the  two  covert  alleys  of  the  green  may  deliver  you. 
But  there  must  be  no  alleys  with  hedges  at  either  end  of  this 
great  enclosure  :  not  at  the  hither  end,  for  letting  your  pros- 
pect upon  this  fair  hedge  from  the  green  ;  nor  at  the  further 
end,  for  letting  your  prospect  from  the  hedge  through  the 
arches  upon  the  heath. 

For  the  ordering  of  the  ground  within  the  great  hedge,  I 
leave  it  to  variety  of  device  ;  advising  nevertheless  that  what- 
soever form  you  cast  it  into,  first,  it  be  not  too  busy  or  full  of 
work.  Wherein  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  like  images  cut  out  in 
juniper  or  other  garden  stuff :  they  be  for  children.  Little  low 
hedges,  round,  like  welts,  with  some  pretty  pyramides,  I  like 
well ;  and  in  some  places,  fair  columns  upon  frames  of  car- 
penter's work.  I  would  also  have  the  alleys  spacious  and  fair. 
You  may  have  closer  alleys  upon  the  side  grounds,  but  none 
in  the  main  garden.  I  wish  also,  in  the  very  middle,  a  fair 
mount,  with  three  ascents,  and  alleys,  enough  for  four  to  walk 
abreast ;  which  I  would  have  to  be  perfect  circles,  without 
any  bulwarks  or  embossments  ;  and  the  whole  amount  to  be 
thirty  foot  high  ;  and  some  fine  banqueting-house,  with  some 
chimneys  neatly  cast,  and  without  too  much  glass. 


SIR  FRANCIS   PIACON  55 

For  fountains,  they  arc  a  great  beauty  and  refreshment ;  but 
pools  mar  all,  and  make  the  garden  unwholesome  and  full  of 
files  and  frogs.  Fountains  I  intend  to  be  of  two  natures  :  the 
one  that  sprinkleth  or  spouteth  water ;  the  other  a  fair  receipt 
of  water,  of  some  thirty  or  forty  foot  square,  but  without  fish,  or 
slime,  or  mud.  For  the  first,  the  ornaments  of  images  gilt,  or 
of  marble,  which  are  in  use,  do  well :  but  the  main  matter 
is  so  to  convey  the  water,  as  it  never  stay,  either  in  the  bowls 
or  in  the  cistern  ;  that  the  water  be  never  by  rest  discoloured, 
green  or  red  or  the  like,  or  gather  any  mossiness  or  putrefac- 
tion. Besides  that,  it  is  to  be  cleansed  every  day  by  the 
hand.  Also  some  steps  up  to  it,  and  some  fine  pavement 
about  it,  doth  well.  As  for  the  other  kind  of  fountain,  which 
we  may  call  a  bathing  pool,  it  may  admit  much  curiosity  and 
beauty,  wherewith  we  will  not  trouble  ourselves  :  as,  that  the 
bottom  be  finely  paved,  and  with  images  ;  the  sides  likewise  ; 
and  withal  embellished  with  coloured  glass,  and  such  things 
of  lustre  ;  encompassed  also  with  fine  rails  of  low  statuas.  But 
the  main  point  is  the  same  which  we  mentioned  in  the  former 
kind  of  fountain  ;  which  is,  that  the  water  be  in  perpetual 
motion,  fed  by  a  water  higher  than  the  pool,  and  delivered 
into  it  by  fair  spouts,  and  then  discharged  away  under  ground, 
by  some  equality  of  bores,  that  it  stay  little.  And  for  fine  de- 
vices, of  arching  water  without  spilling,  and  making  it  rise  in 
several  forms  (of  feathers,  drinking  glasses,  canopies,  and  the 
like),  they  be  pretty  things  to  look  on,  but  nothing  to  health 
and  sweetness. 

For  the  heath,  which  was  the  third  part  of  our  plot,  I  wish 
it  to  be  framed,  as  much  as  may  be,  to  a  natural  wildness. 
Trees  I  would  have  none  in  it,  but  some  thickets  made  only 
of  sweet-briar  and  honeysuckle,  and  some  wild  vine  amongst ; 
and  the  ground  set  with  violets,  strawberries,  and  primroses. 
For  these  are  sweet,  and  prosper  in  the  shade.  And  these  to 
be  in  the  heath,  here  and  there,  not  in  any  order.  I  like  also 
little  heaps,  in  the  nature  of  mole-hills  (such  as  are  in  wild 
heaths),  to  be  set,   some  with   wild  thyme,  some  with  pinks, 


56  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

some  with  .ccrmandcr,  that  gives  a  good  flower  to  the  eye, 
some  with  periwinkle,  some  with  violets,  some  with  straw- 
berries, some  with  cowslips,  some  with  daisies,  some  with  red 
roses,  some  with  lilium  convallium,  some  with  sweet-williams 
red,  some  with  bear's-foot,  and  the  like  low  flowers,  being 
withal  sweet  and  sightly.  Part  of  which  heaps  are  to  be  with 
standards  of  little  bushes  pricked  upon  their  top,  and  part 
without.  The  standards  to  be  roses,  juniper,  holly,  berberries 
(but  here  and  there,  because  of  the  smell  of  their  blossom), 
red  currants,  gooseberry,  rosemary,  bays,  sweet-briar,  and  such 
like.  But  these  standards  to  be  kept  with  cutting,  that  they 
grow  not  out  of  course. 

For  the  side  grounds,  you  are  to  fill  them  with  variety  of 
alleys,  private,  to  give  a  full  shade,  some  of  them,  whereso- 
ever the  sun  be.  You  are  to  frame  some  of  them  likewise  for 
shelter,  that  when  the  wind  blows  sharp,  you  may  walk  as  in 
a  gallery.  And  those  alleys  must  be  likewise  hedged  at  both 
ends,  to  keep  out  the  wind ;  and  these  closer  alleys  must  be 
ever  finely  gravelled,  and  no  grass,  because  of  going  wet.  In 
many  of  these  alleys  likewise,  you  are  to  set  fruit-trees  of  all 
sorts  ;  as  well  upon  the  walls  as  in  ranges.  And  this  would 
be  generally  observed,  that  the  borders  wherein  you  plant  your 
fruit-trees  be  fair  and  large  and  low,  and  not  steep  ;  and  set 
with  fine  flowers,  but  thin  and  sparingly,  lest  they  deceive  the 
trees.  At  the  end  of  both  the  side  grounds,  I  would  have  a 
mount  of  some  pretty  height,  leaving  the  wall  of  the  enclosure 
breast  high,  to  look  abroad  into  the  fields. 

For  the  main  garden,  I  do  not  deny  but  there  should  be 
some  fair  alleys,  ranged  on  both  sides  with  fruit-trees  ;  and 
some  pretty  tufts  of  fruit-trees,  and  arbours  with  seats,  set  in 
some  decent  order ;  but  these  to  be  by  no  means  set  too  thick  ; 
but  to  leave  the  main  garden  so  as  it  be  not  close,  but  the  air 
open  and  free.  For  as  for  shade,  I  would  have  you  rest  upon 
the  alleys  of  the  side  grounds,  there  to  walk,  if  you  be  dis- 
posed, in  the  heat  of  the  year  or  day ;  but  to  make  account 
that  the  main  garden  is  for  the  more  temperate  parts  of  the 


SIR  FRANCIS    P.ACON  57 

year  ;  and,  in  the  heat  of  summer,  for  the  morning  and  the 
evening,  or  over-cast  days. 

For  aviaries,  I  like  them  not,  except  they  be  of  that  large- 
ness as  they  may  be  turfed,  and  have  living  plants  and  bushes 
set  in  them  ;  that  the  birds  may  have  more  scope  and  natural 
nestling,  and  that  no  foulness  appear  in  the  floor  of  the  aviary. 
So  I  have  made  a  platform  of  a  princely  garden,  partly  by  pre- 
cept, partly  by  drawing,  not  a  model,  but  some  general  lines 
of  it ;  and  in  this  I  have  spared  for  no  cost.  But  it  is  noth- 
ing for  great  princes,  that  for  the  most  part  taking  advice  with 
workmen  with  no  less  cost  set  their  things  together,  and  some- 
times add  statuas,  and  such  things,  for  state  and  magnificence, 
but  nothing  to  the  true  pleasure  of  a  garden. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  (1618-1667) 

THE  DANGERS  OF  AN  HONEST  MAN  IN  MUCH 
COMPANY 

(1668) 

If  twenty  thousand  naked  Americans  were  not  able  to  resist 
the  assaults  of  but  twenty  well-armed  Spaniards,  I  see  little 
possibility  for  one  honest  man  to  defend  himself  against  twenty 
thousand  knaves,  who  are  all  furnished  cap-d-pic  with  the  de- 
fensive arms  of  worldly  prudence,  and  the  offensive,  too,  of 
craft  and  malice.  He  will  find  no  less  odds  than  this  against 
him  if  he  have  much  to  do  in  human  affairs.  The  only  advice, 
therefore,  which  I  can  give  him  is,  to  be  sure  not  to  venture 
his  person  any  longer  in  the  open  campaign,  to  retreat  and  en- 
trench himself,  to  stop  up  all  avenues,  and  draw  up  all  bridges 
against  so  numerous  an  enemy.  The  truth  of  it  is,  that  a  man 
in  much  business  must  either  make  himself  a  knave,  or  else 
the  world  will  make  him  a  fool  :  and  if  the  injury  went  no 
farther  than  the  being  laughed  at,  a  wise  man  would  content 
himself  with  the  revenge  of  retaliation  ;  but  the  case  is  much 
worse,  for  these  civil  cannibals  too,  as  well  as  the  wild  ones, 
not  only  dance  about  such  a  taken  stranger,  but  at  last  devour 
him.  A  sober  man  cannot  get  too  soon  out  of  drunken  com- 
pany ;  though  they  be  never  so  kind  and  merry  among  them- 
selves, 'tis  not  unpleasant  only,  but  dangerous  to  him.  Do  ye 
wonder  that  a  virtuous  man  should  love  to  be  alone  .?  It  is 
hard  for  him  to  be  otherwise  ;  he  is  so,  when  he  is  among 
ten  thousand  ;  neither  is  the  solitude  so  uncomfortable  to  be 
alone  without  any  other  creature,  as  it  is  to  be  alone  in  the 
midst  of  wild  beasts.  Man  is  to  man  all  kind  of  beasts  — 
a  fawning  dog,  a  roaring  lion,  a  thieving  fox,  a  robbing  wolf, 

5S 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  59 

a  dissembling  crocodile,  a  treacherous  decoy,  and  a  rapacious 
vulture.  The  civilest,  methinks,  of  all  nations,  are  those  whom 
we  account  the  most  barbarous ;  there  is  some  moderation  and 
good  nature  in  the  Toupinambaltians  who  eat  no  men  but 
their  enemies,  whilst  we  learned  and  polite  and  Christian  Euro- 
peans, like  so  many  pikes  and  sharks,  prey  upon  everything 
that  we  can  swallow.  It  is  the  great  boast  of  eloquence  and 
philosophy,  that  they  first  congregated  men  dispersed,  united 
them  into  societies,  and  built  up  the  houses  and  the  walls  of 
cities.  I  wish  they  could  unravel  all  they  had  woven ;  that  we 
might  have  our  woods  and  our  innocence  again  instead  of  our 
castles  and  our  policies.  They  have  assembled  many  thousands 
of  scattered  people  into  one  body  :  't  is  true,  they  have  done 
so,  they  have  brought  them  together  into  cities  to  cozen,  and 
into  armies  to  murder,  one  another ;  they  found  them  hunters 
and  fishers  of  wild  creatures,  they  have  made  them  hunters 
and  fishers  of  their  brethren  ;  they  boast  to  have  reduced  them 
to  a  state  of  peace,  when  the  truth  is  they  have  only  taught 
them  an  art  of  war  ;  they  have  framed,  I  must  confess,  whole- 
some laws  for  the  restraint  of  vice,  but  they  raised  first  that 
devil  which  now  they  conjure  and  cannot  bind  ;  though  there 
were  before  no  punishments  for  wickedness,  yet  there  was  less 
committed  because  there  were  no  rewards  for  it.  But  the  men 
who  praise  philosophy  from  this  topic  are  much  deceived  ;  let 
oratory  answer  for  itself,  the  tinkling,  perhaps,  of  that  may 
unite  a  swarm  :  it  never  was  the  work  of  philosophy  to  assem- 
ble multitudes,  but  to  regulate  only,  and  govern  them  when 
they  were  assembled,  to  make  the  best  of  an  evil,  and  bring 
them,  as  much  as  is  possible,  to  unity  again.  Avarice  and 
ambition  only  were  the  first  builders  of  towns,  and  founders  of 
empire  ;  they  said,  "  Go  to,  let  us  build  us  a  city  and  a  tower 
whose  top  may  reach  unto  heaven,  and  let  us  make  us  a  name, 
lest  we  be  scattered  abroad  upon  the  face  of  the  earth."  What 
was  the  beginning  of  Rome,  the  metropolis  of  all  the  world  ? 
What  was  it  but  a  concourse  of  thieves,  and  a  sanctuary  of 
criminals  ?   It  was  justly  named  by  the  augury  of  no  less  than 


6o  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

twelve  vultures,  and  the  founder  cemented  his  walls  with  the 
blood  of  his  brother.  Not  unlike  to  this  was  the  beginning 
even  of  the  first  town,  too,  in  the  world,  and  such  is  the  origi- 
nal sin  of  most  cities  :  their  actual  increase  daily  with  their  age 
and  growth  ;  the  more  people,  the  more  wicked  all  of  them  ; 
every  one  brings  in  his  part  to  inflame  the  contagion,  which 
becomes  at  last  so  universal  and  so  strong,  that  no  precepts 
can  be  sufficient  preservatives,  nor  anything  secure  our  safety, 
but  flight  from  among  the  infected.  We  ought,  in  the  choice 
of  a  situation,  to  regard  above  all  things  the  healthfulness  of 
the  place,  and  the  healthfulness  of  it  for  the  mind  rather  than 
for  the  body.  But  suppose  (which  is  hardly  to  be  supposed) 
we  had  antidote  enough  against  this  poison  ;  nay,  suppose, 
farther,  we  were  always  and  at  all  pieces  armed  and  provided 
both  against  the  assaults  of  hostility  and  the  mines  of  treachery, 
't  will  yet  be  but  an  uncomfortable  life  to  be  ever  in  alarms  ; 
though  we  were  compassed  round  with  fire  to  defend  ourselves 
from  wild  beasts,  the  lodging  would  be  unpleasant,  because  we 
must  always  be  obliged  to  watch  that  fire,  and  to  fear  no  less 
the  defects  of  our  guard  than  the  diligences  of  our  enemy. 
The  sum  of  this  is,  that  a  virtuous  man  is  in  danger  to  be  trod 
upon  and  destroyed  in  the  crowd  of  his  contraries  ;  nay,  which 
is  worse,  to  be  changed  and  corrupted  by  them,  and  that  't  is 
impossible  to  escape  both  these  inconveniences  without  so  much 
caution  as  will  take  away  the  whole  quiet,  that  is,  the  happiness 
of  his  life.  Ye  see,  then,  what  he  may  lose  ;  but,  I  pray,  what 
can  he  get  there  .-^  Q?nd  Romte  faciatu  ?  Mcntirl  ncscio.  What 
should  a  man  of  truth  and  honesty  do  at  Rome }  He  can  neither 
understand,  nor  speak  the  language  of  the  place  ;  a  naked  man 
may  swim  in  the  sea,  but  't  is  not  the  way  to  catch  fish  there  ; 
they  are  likelier  to  devour  him  than  he  them,  if  he  bring  no 
nets  and  use  no  deceits.  I  think,  therefore,  it  was  wise  and 
friendly  advice  which  Martial  gave  to  Fabian  when  he  met 
him  new^ly  arrived  at  Rome. 

Honest  and  poor,  faithful  in  word  and  tliought; 
What  has  thee,  Fabian,  to  the  city  brought  ? 


AT5RAHAM   COWLEY  6l 

Thou  iK'ilhcr  the  bufioon  nor  bawd  cansl  i:>lay, 
Nor  with  false  whispers  the  innocent  betray  : 
Nor  corrupt  wives,  nor  from  rich  beldams  get 
A  living  by  thy  industry  and  sweat ; 
Nor  with  vain  promises  and  projects  cheat, 
Nor  bribe  or  flatter  any  of  the  great. 

But  you 're  a  man  of  learning,  prudent,  just; 
A  man  of  courage,  firm,  and  fit  for  trust. 

Why,  you  may  stay,  and  live  unenvied  here ; 
But  (faith)  go  back,  and  keep  you  where  you  were. 

Nay,  if  nothing  of  all  this  were  in  the  case,  yet  the  very 
sight  of  uncleanness  is  loathsome  to  the  cleanly  ;  the  sight  of 
folly  and  impiety  vexatious  to  the  wise  and  pious. 

Lucretius,  by  his  fax'our,  though  a  good  poet,  was  but  an 
ill-natured  man,  when  he  said,  "  It  was  delightful  to  see  other 
men  in  a  great  storm."  And  no  less  ill-natured  should  I  think 
Democritus,  who  laughed  at  all  the  world,  but  that  he  retired 
himself  so  much  out  of  it  that  we  may  perceive  he  took  no 
great  pleasure  in  that  kind  of  mirth.  I  have  been  drawn  twice 
or  thrice  by  company  to  go  to  15edlam,  and  have  seen  others 
very  much  delighted  with  the  fantastical  extravagancy  of  so 
many  various  madnesses,  which  upon  me  wrought  so  contrary 
an  effect,  that  I  always  returned  not  only  melancholy,  but  even 
sick  with  the  sight.  My  compassion  there  was  perhaps  too 
tender,  for  I  meet  a  thousand  madmen  abroad,  without  any 
perturbation,  though,  to  weigh  the  matter  justly,  the  total  loss 
of  reason  is  less  deplorable  than  the  total  depravation  of  it. 
An  exact  judge  of  human  blessings,  of  riches,  honours,  beauty, 
even  of  wit  itself,  should  pity  the  abuse  of  them  more  than 
the  want. 

Briefly,  though  a  wise  man  could  pass  never  so  securely 
through  the  great  roads  of  human  life,  yet  he  will  meet  per- 
petually with  so  many  objects  and  occasions  of  compassion, 
grief,  shame,  anger,  hatred,  indignation,  and  all  passions  but 
envy  (for  he  will  find  nothing  to  deserve  that)  that  he  had 
better  strike  into  some  private  path  ;  nay,  go  so  far,  if  he  could, 
out  of  the  common  way,  tit  iicc  facta  aiidiat  Pelopidarum ; 


62  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

that  he  might  not  so  much  as  hear  (jf  the  actions  of  the  sons 
of  Adam.  ]>ut  whither  shall  we  fly,  then?  Into  the  deserts, 
like  the  ancient  hermits  ? 

(2'ii'J  terra  patet  fera  regnat  Erynnis. 
In  facin  us  jurasse  piites. 

One  would  think  that  all  mankind  had  bound  themselves  by 
an  oath  to  do  all  the  wickedness  they  can  ;  that  they  had  all 
(as  the  Scripture  speaks)  sold  themselves  to  sin  :  the  difference 
only  is,  that  some  are  a  little  more  crafty  (and  but  a  little, 
God  knows)  in  making  of  the  bargain.  I  thought,  when  I 
went  first  to  dwell  in  the  country,  that  without  doubt  I  should 
have  met  there  with  the  simplicity  of  the  old  poetical  golden 
age  :  I  thought  to  have  found  no  inhabitants  there,  but  such 
as  the  shepherds  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  in  Arcadia,  or  of  Mon- 
sieur d'Urfe  upon  the  banks  of  Lignon  ;  and  began  to  con- 
sider with  myself,  which  way  I  might  recommend  no  less  to 
posterity  the  happiness  and  innocence  of  the  men  of  Chertsey  : 
but  to  confess  the  truth,  I  perceived  quickly,  by  infallible 
demonstrations,  that  I  was  still  in  old  England,  and  not  in 
Arcadia,  or  La  Forrest ;  that  if  I  could  not  content  myself 
with  anything  less  than  exact  fidelity  in  human  conversation, 
I  had  almost  as  good  go  back  and  seek  for  it  in  the  Court, 
or  the  Exchange,  or  Westminster  Hall.  I  ask  again,  then, 
whither  shall  we  fly,  or  what  shall  we  do  1  The  world  may  so 
come  in  a  man's  way  that  he  cannot  choose  but  salute  it ;  he 
must  take  heed,  though,  not  to  go  a-whoring  after  it.  If  by 
any  lawful  vocation  or  just  necessity  men  happen  to  be  mar- 
ried to  it,  I  can  only  give  them  St.  Paul's  advice  :  "  Brethren, 
the  time  is  short ;  it  remains  that  they  that  have  wives  be  as 
though  they  had  none.  But  I  would  that  all  men  were  even 
as  I  myself." 

In  all  cases  they  must  be  sure  that  they  do  mundwn  duccre 
and  not  mundo  nnbcre.  They  must  retain  the  superiority  and 
headship  over  it :  happy  are  they  who  can  get  out  of  the  sight 
of  this  deceitful  beauty,  that  they  may  not  be  led  so  much  as 


ABRAHAM    CO\\'Lt:Y  63 

into  temptation  ;  who  have  not  only  ciuittecl  the  metropcjHs, 
but  can  abstain  from  ever  seeing  the  next  market  town  of 
their  country. 

OF  MYSELF 

(1668) 

It  is  a  hard  and  nice  subject  for  a  man  to  write  of  himself ; 
it  grates  his  own  heart  to  say  anything  of  disparagement  and 
the  reader's  ears  to  hear  anything  of  praise  from  him.  There 
is  no  danger  from  me  of  offending  him  in  this  kind  ;  neither 
my  mind,  nor  my  body,  nor  my  fortune  allow  me  any  materials 
for  that  vanity.  It  is  sufficient  for  my  own  contentment  that 
they  have  preserved  me  from  being  scandalous,  or  remarkable 
on  the  defective  side.  But  besides  that,  I  shall  here  speak  of 
myself  only  in  relation  to  the  subject  of  these  precedent  dis- 
courses, and  shall  be  likelier  thereby  to  fall  into  the  contempt 
than  rise  up  to  the  estimation  of  most  people.  As  far  as  my 
memory  can  return  back  into  my  past  life,  before  I  knew  or 
was  capable  of  guessing  what  the  world,  or  glories,  or  business 
of  it  were,  the  natural  affections  of  my  soul  gave  me  a  secret 
bent  of  aversion  from  them,  as  some  plants  are  said  to  turn 
away  from  others,  by  an  antipathy  imperceptible  to  themselves 
and  inscrutable  to  man's  understanding.  Even  when  I  was  a 
very  young  boy  at  school,  instead  of  running  about  on  holidays 
and  playing  with  my  fellows,  I  was  wont  to  steal  from  them 
and  walk  into  the  fields,  either  alone  with  a  book,  or  with  some 
one  companion,  if  I  could  find  any  of  the  same  temper.  I  was 
then,  too,  so  much  an  enemy  to  all  constraint,  that  my  masters 
could  never  prevail  on  me,  by  any  persuasions  or  encourage- 
ments, to  learn  without  book  the  common  rules  of  grammar, 
in  which  they  dispensed  with  me  alone,  because  they  found  I 
made  a  shift  to  do  the  usual  exercise  out  of  my  own  reading  and 
observation.  That  I  was  then  of  the  same  mind  as  I  am  now 
(which  I  confess  I  wonder  at  myself)  may  appear  by  the  latter 
end  of  an  ode  which  I  made  when  I  was  but  thirteen  years 


64  'rHI<:  KNCiLlSH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

old,  and  which  was  then  printed  with  many  other  verses.  The 
beginning  of  it  is  boyish,  but  of  this  part  whicli  I  here  set 
down  (if  a  very  little  were  corrected)  I  should  hardly  now  be 
much  ashamed. 

9 
This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honour  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone. 
The  unlvnown  are  better  than  ill  known. 

Rumour  can  ope  the  grave ; 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

10 
Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage,  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
P'or  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's;  and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

11 
Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight. 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish  my  fate. 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them  ;   I  have  lived  to-day. 

You  may  see  by  it  I  was  even  then  acquainted  with  the 
poets  (for  the  conclusion  is  taken  out  of  Horace),  and  per- 
haps it  was  the  immature  and  immoderate  love  of  them  which 
stamped  first,  or  rather  engraved,  these  characters  in  me.  They 
were  like  letters  cut  into  the  bark  of  a  young  tree,  which  with 
the  tree  still  grow  proportionably.  But  how  this  love  came  to 
be  produced  in  me  so  early  is  a  hard  question.     I  believe  I  can 


Ar.RAlIAM    COWLF.Y  65 

tell  the  particular  little  chance  that  filled  my  head  first  with 
such  chimes  of  verse  as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there. 
For  I  remember  when  I  began  to  read,  and  to  take  some  pleas- 
ure in  it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my  mother's  parlour  {I  know 
not  by  what  accident,  for  she  herself  never  in  her  life  read 
any  book  but  of  devotion),  but  there  was  wont  to  lie  Spenser's 
works  ;  this  I  happened  to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  de- 
lighted with  the  stories  of  the  knights,  and  giants,  and  mon- 
sters, and  brave  houses,  which  I  found  everywhere  there  (though 
my  understanding  had  little  to  do  with  all  this)  ;  and  by  degrees 
with  the  tinkling  of  the  rhyme  and  dance  of  the  numbers,  so 
that  I  think  I  had  read  him  all  over  before  I  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  was  thus  made  a  poet  as  immediately  as'  a  child  is 
made  an  eunuch.  With  these  affections  of  mind,  and  my  heart 
wholly  set  upon  letters,  I  went  to  the  university,  but  was  soon 
torn  from  thence  by  that  violent  public  st(^rm  which  would  suffer 
nothing  to  stand  where  it  did,  but  rooted  up  every  plant,  even 
from  the  princely  cedars  to  me,  the  hyssop.  Yet  I  had  as  good 
fortune  as  could  have  befallen  me  in  such  a  tempest ;  for  I 
was  cast  by  it  into  the  family  of  one  of  the  best"  persons,  and 
into  the  court  of  one  of  the  best  princesses  of  the  world.  Now 
though  I  was  here  engaged  in  ways  most  contrary  to  the  orig- 
inal design  of  my  life,  that  is,  into  much  company,  and  no 
small  business,  and  into  a  daily  sight  of  greatness,  both  mili- 
tant and  triumphant  (for  that  was  the  state  then  of  the  English 
and  French  Courts)  ;  yet  all  this  was  so  far  from  altering  my 
opinion,  that  it  only  added  the  confirmation  of  reason  to  that 
which  was  before  but  natural  inclination.  I  saw  plainly  all  the 
paint  of  that  kind  of  life,  the  nearer  I  came  to  it ;  and  that 
beauty  which  I  did  not  fall  in  love  with  when,  for  aught  I  knew, 
it  was  real,  was  not  like  to  bewitch  or  entice  me  when  I  saw 
that  it  was  adulterate.  I  met  with  several  great  persons,  whom 
I  liked  very  well,  but  could  not  perceive  that  any  part  of  their 
greatness  was  to  be  liked  or  desired,  no  more  than  I  would  be 
glad  or  content  to  be  in  a  storm,  though  I  saw  many  ships 
which  rid  safely  and  bravely  in  it.    A  storm  would  not  agree 


66  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

with  my  stomach,  if  it  did  with  my  courage.  Though  I  was 
in  a  crowd  of  as  good  company  as  could  be  found  anywhere, 
though  I  was  in  business  of  great  and  honourable  trust,  though 
I  eat  at  the  best  table,  and  enjoyed  the  best  conveniences  for 
present  subsistence  that  ought  to  be  desired  by  a  man  of  my 
condition  in  banishment  and  public  distresses ;  yet  I  could  not 
abstain  from  renewing  my  old  schoolboy's  wish  in  a  copy  of 
verses  to  the  same  effect. 

Well  then ;   I  now  do  plainly  see, 

This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree,  etc. 

And  I  never  then  proposed  to  myself  any  other  advantage 
from  His  Majesty's  happy  restoration,  but  the  getting  into  some 
moderately  convenient  retreat  in  the  country,  which  I  thought 
in  that  case  I  might  easily  have  compassed,  as  well  as  some 
others,  with  no  greater  probabilities  or  pretences,  have  arrived 
to  extraordinary  fortunes.  But  I  had  before  written  a  shrewd 
prophecy  against  myself,  and  I  think  Apollo  inspired  me  in 
the  truth,  though  not  in  the  elegance  of  it. 

Thou,  neither  great  at  court  nor  in  the  war, 

Nor  at  th'  exchange  shalt  be,  nor  at  the  wrangling  bar ; 

Content  thyself  with  the  small  barren  praise. 

Which  neglected  verse  does  raise,  etc. 

However,  by  the  failing  of  the  forces  which  I  had  expected, 
I  did  not  quit  the  design  which  I  had  resolved  on  ;  I  cast  my- 
self into  it  a  corps  perdu,  without  making  capitulations  or  tak- 
ing counsel  of  fortune.  But  God  laughs  at  a  man  who  says 
to  his  soul,  "Take  thy  ease"  :  I  met  presently  not  only  with 
many  little  encumbrances  and  impediments,  but  with  so  much 
sickness  (a  new  misfortune  to  me)  as  would  have  spoiled  the 
happiness  of  an  emperor  as  well  as  mine.  Yet  I  do  neither 
repent  nor  alter  my  course.  Non  ego  pci'fidinn  dixi  sacra- 
moitnui.  Nothing  shall  separate  me  from  a  mistress  which 
I  have  loved  so  long,  and  have  now  at  last  married,  though 
she  neither  has  brought  me  a  rich  portion,  nor  lived  yet  so 
quietly  with  me  as  I  hoped  from  her. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  6j 

A^ec  710s,  diikissima  711  nil dl 

A^ojHi/ia,  vos  ATusce^  libertas^  oiia,  libri, 
Hortiqiie  syh>ccqiie  aniiiia  remaiieiite  relinquam. 

Nor  by  me  e'er  shall  you, 
You  of  all  names  the  sweetest,  and  the  best. 
You  Muses,  books,  and  liberty,  and  rest. 
You  gardens,  fields,  and  woods  forsaken  be, 
As  long  as  life  itself  forsakes  not  me. 

But  this  is  a  very  petty  ejaculation.  Because  I  have  con- 
cluded all  the  other  chapters  with  a  copy  of  verses,  I  will 
maintain  the  humour  to  the  last. 

MARTIAL,  BOOK  10,  EPIGRAM  47 

Vitatft  quce  faciimt  l>eafiore?n,  etc. 

Since,  dearest  friend,  'tis  your  desire  to  see 

A  true  receipt  of  happiness  from  me ; 

These  are  the  chief  ingredients,  if  not  all : 

Take  an  estate  neither  too  great  nor  small, 

Which  quantuin  siifficit  the  doctors  call. 

Let  this  estate  from  parents'  care  descend : 

The  getting  it  too  much  of  life  does  spend. 

Take  such  a  ground,  whose  gratitude  may  be 

A  fair  encouragement  for  industry. 

Let  constant  fires  the  winter's  fury  tame. 

And  let  thy  kitchen's  be  a  vestal  f^ame. 

Thee  to  the  town  let  never  suit  at  law. 

And  rarely,  very  rarely,  business  draw. 

Thy  active  mind  in  equal  temper  keep. 

In  undisturbed  peace,  yet  not  in  sleep. 

Let  exercise  a  vigorous  health  maintain, 

Without  which  all  the  composition  's  vain. 

In  the  same  weight  prudence  and  innocence  take. 

Alia  of  each  does  the  just  mixture  make. 

But  a  few  friendships  wear,  and  let  them  be 

By  Nature  and  by  Fortune  fit  for  thee. 

Instead  of  art  and  luxury  in  food. 

Let  mirth  and  freedom  make  thy  table  good. 

If  any  cares  into  thv  daytime  creep, 

At  night,  without  wine's  opium,  let  them  sleep. 


68  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Let  rest,  which  Nature  docs  to  darkness  wed, 

And  not  kist,  recommend  to  thee  thy  bed. 

Be  satisfied,  and  pleased  with  what  thou  art ; 

Act  cheerfully  and  well  th'  allotted  part, 

Enjoy  the  present  hour,  be  thankful  for  the  past. 

And  neither  fear,  nor  wish  th'  approaches  of  the  last. 

MARTIAL,  BOOK  10,  EPIGRAM  96 

Me,  who  have  lived  so  lonj:^  among  the  great, 
You  wonder  to  hear  talk  of  a  retreat : 
And  a  retreat  so  distant,  as  may  show 
No  thoughts  of  a  return  when  once  I  go. 
Give  me  a  country,  how  remote  so  e'er, 
Where  happiness  a  moderate  rate  does  bear. 
Where  poverty  itself  in  plenty  flows 
And  all  the  solid  use  of  riches  knows. 
The  ground  about  the  house  maintains  it  there, 
The  house  maintains  the  ground  about  it  here. 
Here  even  hunger  's  dear,  and  a  full  board 
Devours  the  vital  substance  of  the  lord. 
The  land  itself  does  there  the  feast  bestow, 
The  land  itself  must  here  to  market  go. 
Three  or  four  suits  one  winter  here  does  waste, 
One  suit  does  there  three  or  four  winters  last. 
Here  every  frugal  man  must  oft  be  cold. 
And  litde  lukewarm  fires  are  to  you  sold. 
There  fire  's  an  element  as  cheap  and  free 
Almost  as  any  of  the  other  three. 
Stay  you  then  here,  and  live  among  the  great, 
•     Attend  their  sports,  and  at  their  tables  eat. 
When  all  the  bounties  here  of  men  you  score, 
The  place's  bounty  there  shall  give  me  more. 


SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY   CHARACTERS 

John  Earle  (i 601-1665) 
From  Microcosvwi^rapJiie  ( 1 62S) 

A  MERE  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 

Is  one  that  comes  there  to  wear  a  gown,  and  to  say  here- 
after, he  has  been  at  the  university.  His  father  sent  him 
thither  because  he  heard  there  were  the  best  fencing  and 
dancing  schools  ;  from  these  he  has  his  education,  from  his 
tutor  the  oversight.  The  first  element  of  his  knowledge  is  to 
be  shown  the  colleges,  and  initiated  in  a  tavern  by  the  way, 
which  hereafter  he  will  learn  of  himself.  The  two  marks  of 
his  seniority  is  the  bare  velvet  of  his  gown  and  his  proficiency 
at  tennis,  where  when  he  can  once  play  a  set,  he  is  a  fresh- 
man no  more.  His  study  has  commonly  handsome  shelves, 
his  books  neat  silk  strings,  which  he  shows  to  his  father's 
man,  and  is  loth  to  untie  or  take  down  for  fear  of  misplacing. 
Upon  foul  days  for  recreation  he  retires  thither,  and  looks 
over  the  pretty  book  his  tutor  reads  to  him,  which  is  commonly 
some  short  histoiy,  or  a  piece  of  EupJiormio  ;  for  which  his 
tutor  gives  him  money  to  spend  next  day.  His  main  loitering 
is  at  the  library,  where  he  studies  arms  and  books  of  honour, 
and  turns  a  gentleman-critic  in  pedigrees.  Of  all  things  he 
endures  not  to  be  mistaken  for  a  scholar,  and  hates  a  black 
suit  though  it  be  of  sattin.  His  companion  is  ordinarily  some 
stale  fellow,  that  has  been  notorious  for  an  ingle  to  gold 
hatbands,  whom  he  admires  at  first,  afterward  scorns.  If  he 
have  spirit  or  wit,  he  may  light  of  better  company,  and  may 
learn  some  flashes  of  wit,  which  may  do  him  knight's  service 

69 


70  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

in  the  country  hereafter.  But  he  is  now  gone  to  the  Inns-of- 
court,  wliere  he  studies  to  forget  what  he  learned  before,  his 
acquaintance  and  tlie  fashion, 

A  CONTEMPLATIVE  MAN 

Is  a  scholar  in  this  great  university  the  World,  and  the 
same  his  book  and  study.  He  cloisters  not  his  meditations  in 
the  narrow  darkness  of  a  room,  but  sends  them  abroad  with 
his  eyes,' and  his  brain  travels  with  his  feet.  He  looks  upon 
man  from  a  high  tower,  and  sees  him  trulier  at  this  distance  in 
his  infirmities  and  poorness.  He  scorns  to  mix  himself  in  men's 
actions,  as  he  would  to  act  upon  a  stage  ;  but  sits  aloft  on  the 
scaffold  a  censuring  spectator.  Nature  admits  him  as  a  par- 
taker of  her  sports,  and  asks  his  approbation  as  it  were  of  her 
own  works  and  variety.  He  comes  not  in  company,  because 
he  would  not  be  solitary,  but  finds  discourse  enough  with 
himself,  and  his  own  thoughts  are  his  excellent  playfellows. 
He  looks  not  upon  a  thing  as  a  yawning  stranger  at  novelties  ; 
but  his  search  is  more  mysterious  and  inward,  and  he  spells 
Heaven  out  of  earth.  He  knits  his  observations  together,  and 
makes  a  ladder  of  them  all  to  climb  to  God.  He  is  free  from 
vice,  because  he  has  no  occasion  to  employ  it,  and  is  above 
those  ends  that  make  men  wicked.  He  has  learnt  all  can  here 
be  taught  him,  and  comes  now  to  Heaven  to  see  more. 

Jean  La  Bruyere  (1645-1696) 
From  Lcs  Caracicrcs  (i  688-1 694) 

THE  CFIARACTER  OF  ARRIAS 

Who,  that  goes  into  society,  can  help  meeting  with  certain 
vain,  fickle,  familiar,  and  positive  people  who  monopolise  all 
conversation,  and  compel  every  one  else  to  listen  to  them  } 
They  can  be  heard  in  the  anteroom,  and  a  person  may  boldly 
enter  without  fear  of  interrupting  them  ;  they  continue  their 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  CHARACTERS  71 

story  without  paying  the  smallest  attention  to  any  comers  or 
goers,  or  to  the  rank  and  quality  of  their  audience  ;  they  silence 
a  man  who  begins  to  tell  an  anecdote,  so  that  they  may  tell  it 
themselves  according  to  their  fashion,  which  is  the  best ;  they 
heard  it  from  Zamet,  from  Ruccellai,  or  from  Concini,  whom 
they  do  not  know,  to  whom  they  never  spoke  in  their  lives, 
and  whom  they  would  address  as  "Your  Excellency,"  if  ever 
they  spoke  to  any  one  of  them.  They  sometimes  will  go  up 
to  a  man  of  the  highest  rank  among  those  who  are  present, 
and  whisper  in  his  ear  some  circumstance  which  nobody  else 
knows,  and  which  they  would  not  have  divulged  to  others  for 
the  world  ;  they  conceal  some  names  to  disguise  the  anecdote 
they  relate  and  to  prevent  the  real  persons  being  found  out ; 
you  ask  them  to  let  you  have  these  names,  you  urge  them  in 
vain.  There  are  some  things  they  must  not  tell,  and  some 
persons  whom  they  cannot  name  ;  they  have  given  their  word 
of  honour  not  to  do  so ;  it  is  a  secret,  a  mystery  of  the  greatest 
importance  ;  moreover,  you  ask  an  impossibility.  You  might 
wish  to  learn  something  from  them,  but  they  know  neither  the 
facts  nor  the  persons. 

Arrias  has  read  and  seen  everything,  at  least  he  would  lead 
you  to  think  so ;  he  is  a  man  of  universal  knowledge,  or  pre- 
tends to  be,  and  would  rather  tell  a  falsehood  than  be  silent 
or  appear  to  ignore  anything.  Some  person  is  talking  at  meal- 
time in  the  house  of  a  man  of  rank  of  a  northern  court ;  he 
interrupts  and  prevents  him  telling  what  he  knows  ;  he  goes 
hither  and  thither  in  that  distant  country  as  if  he  were  a  native 
of  it ;  he  discourses  about  the  habits  of  its  court,  the  native 
women,  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  land  ;  he  tells  many  little 
stories  which  happened  there,  thinks  them  very  entertaining, 
and  is  the  first  to  laugh  loudly  at  them.  Somebody  presumes 
to  contradict  him,  and  clearly  proves  to  him  that  what  he  says 
is  untrue.  Arrias  is  not  disconcerted  ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
grows  angry  at  the  interruption,  and  exclaims,  "  I  aver  and 
relate  nothing  but  what  I  know  on  excellent  authority  ;  I  had 
it  from  Sethon,  the  French  ambassador  at  that  court,  who  only 


72  THE  ENGLISPI   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

a  few  days  ago  came  back  to  Paris,  and  is  a  particular  friend 
of  mine ;  I  asked  him  several  questions,  and  he  replied  to 
them  all  without  concealing  anything."  He  continues  his  story 
with  greater  confidence  than  he  began  it,  till  one  of  the  com- 
pany informs  him  that  the  gentleman  whom  he  has  been 
contradicting  was  Sethon  himself,  but  lately  arrived  from 
his    embassy. 


777^  TATLER  (1709-1711) 

rROSPECTUS 

No.  I.    Tuesday,  April  12,  1709 
Quicqiiid  aguiit  homines  .  .  .  iiosiri  fan\ig(>  UIhIU. 

Though  the  other  papers  which  are  pubhshed  for  the  use 
of  the  good  people  of  England  have  certainly  very  wholesome 
effects,  and  are  laudable  in  their  particular  kinds,  yet  they  do 
not  seem  to  come  up  to  the  main  design  of  such  narrations, 
which,  I  humbly  presume,  should  be  principally  intended  for 
the  use  of  politic  persons,  who  are  so  public-spirited  as  to  neg- 
lect their  own  affairs  to  look  into  transactions  of  state.  Now 
these  gentlemen,  for  the  most  part,  being  men  of  strong  zeal 
and  weak  intellects,  it  is  both  a  charitable  and  necessary  work 
to  offer  something,  whereby  such  worthy  and  well-affected  mem- 
bers of  the  commonwealth  may  be  instructed,  after  their  read- 
ing, what  to  think  ;  which  shall  be  the  end  and  purpose  of  this 
my  paper,  wherein  I  shall  from  time  to  time  report  and  con- 
sider all  matters  of  what  kind  soever  that  shall  occur  to  me, 
and  publish  such  my  advices  and  reflections  every  Tuesday, 
Thursday,  and  Saturday  in  the  week,  for  the  convenience  of 
the  post.  I  have  also  resolved  to  have  something  which  may 
be  of  entertainment  to  the  fair  sex,  in  honour  of  whom  I  have 
taken  the  title  of  this  paper.  I  therefore  earnestly  desire  all 
persons,  without  distinction,  to  take  it  in  for  the  present  gratis, 
and  hereafter  at  the  price  of  one  penny,  forbidding  all  hawkers 
to  take  more  for  it  at  their  peril.  And  I  desire  my  readers  to 
consider,  that  I  am  at  a  very  great  charge  for  proper  materials 
for  this  work,  as  well  as  that,  before  I  resolved  upon  it,  I 
liad  settled  a  correspondence  in  all  parts  of  the  known  and 

73 


74  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

knowing  world.  And  forasmuch  as  this  globe  is  not  trodden 
upon  by  mere  drudges  of  business  only,  but  that  men  of  spirit 
and  genius  are  justly  to  be  esteemed  as  considerable  agents  in 
it,  we  shall  not,  upon  a  dearth  of  news,  present  you  with  musty 
foreign  edicts,  or  dull  proclamations,  but  shall  divide  our  rela- 
tion of  the  passages  which  occur  in  action  or  discourse  through- 
out this  town,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  under  such  dates  of  places 
as  may  prepare  you  for  the  matter  you  are  to  expect,  in  the 
following  manner  : 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and  entertainment,  shall 
be  under  the  article  of  White's  Chocolate-house ;  poetry, 
under  that  of  Will's  Coffee-house ;  learning,  under  the  title 
of  Grecian  ;  foreign  and  domestic  news,  you  will  have  from 
St,  James's  Coffee-house  ;  and  what  else  I  shall  on  any  other 
subject  offer,  shall  be  dated  from  my  own  apartment. 

I  once  more  desire  my  reader  to  consider  that  as  I  cannot 
keep  an  ingenious  man  to  go  daily  to  Will's  under  twopence 
each  day  merely  for  his  charges,  to  White's  under  sixpence, 
nor  to  the  Grecian  without  allowing  him  some  plain  Spanish, 
to  be  as  able  as  others  at  the  learned  table ;  and  that  a  good 
observer  cannot  speak  with  even  Kidney  at  St.  James's  without 
clean  linen  ;  I  say,  these  considerations  will,  I  hope,  make  all 
persons  willing  to  comply  with  my  humble  request  (when  my 
gratis  stock  is  exhausted)  of  a  penny  a  piece ;  especially  since 
they  are  sure  of  some  proper  amusement,  and  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  want  means  to  entertain  them,  having,  besides 
the  helps  of  my  own  parts,  the  power  of  divination,  and  that  I 
can,  by  casting  a  figure,  tell  you  all  that  will  happen  before  it 
comes  to  pass. 

But  this  last  faculty  I  shall  use  very  sparingly,  and  not  speak 
of  anything  until  it  is  passed,  for  fear  of  divulging  matters 
which  may  offend  our  superiors.    [Steele] 


THE  TATLER  75 

ON  DUELLING 

No.  29.    Thursday,  June  16,  1709 

Whitens  Chocolate-hoiisc,  June  14 

Having  a  very  solid  respect  for  human  nature,  however  it  is 
distorted  from  its  natural  make  by  affectation,  humour,  custom, 
misfortune,  or  vice,  I  do  apply  myself  to  my  friends  to  help 
me  in  raising  arguments  for  preserving  it  in  all  its  individuals, 
as  long  as  it  is  permitted.  To  one  of  my  letters  on  this  subject, 
I  have  received  the  following  answer : 

Sir, 

In  answer  to  your  question,  why  men  of  sense,  virtue,  and  experience 
are  seen  still  to  comply  with  that  ridiculous  custom  of  duelling,  I  must  de- 
sire you  to  reflect  that  custom  has  dished  up  in  ruffs  the  wisest  heads  of 
our  ancestors,  and  put  the  best  of  the  present  age  into  huge  falbala  peri- 
wigs. Men  of  sense  would  not  impose  such  encumbrances  on  themselves, 
but  be  glad  they  might  show  their  faces  decently  in  public  upon  easier 
terms.  If  then  such  men  appear  reasonably  slaves  to  the  fashion,  in  what 
regards  the  figure  of  their  persons,  we  ought  not  to  wonder  that  they  are 
at  least  so  in  what  seems  to  touch  their  reputations.  Besides,  you  can't  be 
ignorant  that  dress  and  chivalry  have  been  always  encouraged  by  the  ladies 
as  the  two  principal  branches  of  gallantry.  It  is  to  avoid  being  sneered  at 
for  his  singularity,  and  from  a  desire  to  appear  more  agreeable  to  his  mis- 
tress, that  a  wise,  experienced,  and  polite  man  complies  with  the  dress  com- 
monly received,  and  is  prevailed  upon  to  violate  his  reason  and  principles 
in  hazarding  his  life  and  estate  by  a  tilt,  as  well  as  suffering  his  pleasures 
to  be  constrained  and  soured  by  the  constant  apprehension  of  a  quarrel. 
This  is  the  more  surprising,  because  men  of  the  most  delicate  sense  and 
principles  have  naturally  in  other  cases  a  particular  repugnance  in  accom- 
modating themselves  to  the  maxims  of  the  world :  but  one  may  easily  dis- 
tinguish the  man  that  is  affected  with  beauetry  and  the  reputation  of  a  tilt 
from  him  who  complies  with  both  merely  as  they  are  imposed  upon  him  by 
custom ;  for  in  the  former  you  will  remark  an  air  of  vanity  and  triumph, 
whereas  when  the  latter  appears  in  a  long  Duvillier  full  of  powder,  or  has 
decided  a  quarrel  by  the  sword,  you  may  perceive  in  his  face  that  he  ap- 
peals to  custom  for  an  excuse.  I  think  it  may  not  be  improper  to  inquire 
into  the  genealogy  of  this  chimerical  monster  called  a  duel,  which  I  take 
to  be  an  illegitimate  species  of  the  ancient  knight-errantry.    By  the  laws 


76  THE  ENGLISH   FAAHLIAR  ESSAY 

of  this  whim,  your  heroic  person,  or  man  of  gallantry,  was  indispensably 
obliged  to  starve  in  armour  a  certain  number  of  years  in  the  chase  of  mon- 
sters, encounter  them  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  and  suffer  great  hardships  in 
order  to  gain  the  affection  of  the  fair  lady,  and  qualify  himself  for  assum- 
ing the  bel  air,  that  is,  of  a  pretty  fellow,  or  man  of  honour  according  to 
the  fashion :  but  since  the  publishing  of  Don  Quixote  and  extinction  of 
the  race  of  dragons,  which  Suetonius  says  happened  in  that  of  Wantley,  the 
gallant  and  heroic  spirits  of  these  later  times  have  been  under  the  necessity 
of  creating  new  chimerical  monsters  to  entertain  themselves  with,  by  way 
of  single  combats,  as  the  only  proofs  they  are  able  to  give  their  own  sex, 
and  the  ladies,  that  they  arc  in  all  points  men  of  nice  honour.  But  to  do 
justice  to  the  ancient  and  real  monsters,  I  must  observe  that  they  never 
molested  those  who  were  not  of  a  humour  to  hunt  for  them  in  the  woods 
and  deserts ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  our  modern  monsters  are  so  famil- 
iarly admitted  and  entertained  in  all  the  courts  and  cities  of  Europe  (except 
France)  that  one  can  scarce  be  in  the  most  humanised  society  without  risk- 
ing one's  life ;  the  people  of  the  best  sort  and  the  fine  gentlemen  of  the 
age  being  so  fond  of  them  that  they  seldom  appear  in  any  public  place 
without  one.  I  have  some  further  considerations  upon  this  subject  which, 
as  you  encourage  me,  shall  be  communicated  to  you  by.  Sir,  a  cousin  but 
once  removed  from  the  best  family  of  the  Staffs,  namely. 

Sir, 
Your  humble  Servant, 

Kinsman  and  Friend, 

Tim.  Switch. 

It  is  certain,  Mr.  vSwitch  has  hit  upon  the  true  source  of  this 
evil,  and  that  it  proceeds  only  from  the  force  of  custom  that 
we  contradict  ourselves  in  half  the  particulars  and  occurrences 
of  life.  But  such  a  tyranny  in  love,  which  the  fair  impose  upon 
us,  is  a  little  too  severe,  that  we  must  demonstrate  our  affection 
for  them  by  no  certain  proof  but  hatred  to  one  another,  or  come 
at  them  (only  as  one  does  to  an  estate)  by  survivorship.  This 
way  of  application  to  gain  a  lady's  heart  is  taking  her  as  we 
do  towns  and  castles,  by  distressing  the  place  and  letting  none 
come  near  them  without  our  pass.  Were  such  a  lover  once 
to  write  the  truth  of  his  heart,  and  let  her  know  his  whole 
thoughts,  he  would  appear  indeed  to  have  a  passion  for  her ; 
but  it  would  hardly  be  called  love.  The  billet-doux  would  run 
to  this  purpose  : 


THE  TATLEK  77 

Madame, 

I  have  so  tender  a  regard  for  you  and  your  interests  that  I  '11  knock  any 
man  in  the  head  whom  I  observe  to  be  of  my  mind,  and  like  you.  Mr.  Tru- 
man the  other  day  looked  at  you  in  so  languishing  a  manner  that  I  am  re- 
solved to  run  him  through  to-morrow  morning :  this,  1  think,  he  deserves 
for  his  guilt  in  admiring  you,  than  which  I  cannot  have  a  greater  reason 
for  murdering  him,  except  it  be  that  you  also  approve  him.  Whoever  says 
he  dies  for  you,  I  will  make  his  words  good,  for  I  will  kill  him.    I  am, 

Madame, 

Your  most  obedient, 

FStfft  f1  Most  humble  Servant. 

HAPPY  MARRLVGE 

No.  95.    November  17,  1709 

Intcrea  diilccs pendent  drcum  oscida  nati ;  casta piuUeitiatn  sercat  donius. 

» 

From  my  ozun  Apariment,  N^ov.  16 

There  are  several  persons  who  have  many  pleasures  and  enter- 
tainments in  their  possession  which  they  do  not  enjoy.  It  is 
therefore  a  kind  and  good  office  to  acquaint  them  with  their  own 
happiness,  and  turn  their  attention  to  such  instances  of  their 
good  fortune  which  they  are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons  in  the 
married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor,  and  pine  away  their 
days,  by  looking  upon  the  same  condition  in  anguish  and  mur- 
mur which  carries  with  it  in  the  opinion  of  others  a  complication 
of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  a  retreat  from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an  old  friend 
who  was  formerly  my  school-fellow.  He  came  to  town  last  week 
with  his  family  for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morning  sent  me 
word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.  I  am  as  it  were  at  home 
at  that  house,  and  every  member  of  it  knows  me  for  their  well- 
wisher.  I  cannot  indeed  express  the  pleasure  it  is  to  be  met 
by  the  children  with  so  much  joy  as  I  am  when  I  go  thither  : 
the  boys  and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first  when  they  think 
it  is  I  that  am  knocking  at  the  door  ;  and  that  child  which 
loses  the  race  to  me  runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father  it  is 
Mr.  Bickerstaff.    This  day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty  girl,  that 


78  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

we  all  thought  must  have  forgot  me  ;  for  the  family  has  been 
out  of  town  these  two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a 
mighty  subject  with  us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first 
entrance.  After  which,  they  began  to  rally  me  upon  a  thousand 
little  stories  they  heard  in  the  country  about  my  marriage  to 
one  of  my  neighbour's  daughters  :  upon  which  the  gentleman, 
my  friend,  said,  "  Nay,  if  Mr,  Bickerstaff  marries  a  child  of 
any  of  his  old  companions,  I  hope  mine  shall  have  the  pref- 
erence ;  there  's  Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen,  and  would  make 
him  as  fine  a  widow  as  the  best  of  them  :  but  I  know  him  too 
well ;  he  is  so  enamoured  with  the  very  memory  of  those  who 
flourished  in  our  youth,  that  he  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon 
the  modern  beauties.  I  remember,  old  gentleman,  how  often 
you  went  home  in  a  day  to  refresh  your  countenance  and  dress 
when  Teraminta  reigned  in  your  heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the 
coach,  I  repeated  to  my  wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her," 
With  such  reflections  on  little  passages  which  happened  long 
ago,  we  passed  our  time  during  a  cheerful  and  elegant  meal. 
After  dinner,  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  children. 
As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the  hand ;  "  Well, 
my  good  friend,"  says  he,  "  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee  ;  I 
was  afraid  you  would  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that 
dined  with  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you  think  the  good  woman 
of  the  house  a  little  altered  since  you  followed  her  from  the 
play-house,  to  find  out  who  she  was,  for  me  ?  "  I  perceived  a 
tear  fall  down  his  cheek  as  he  spoke,  which  moved  me  not 
a  little.  But  to  turn  the  discourse,  said  I,  "  She  is  not  indeed 
quite  that  creature  she  was  when  she  returned  me  the  letter  I 
carried  from  you  ;  and  told  me,  she  hoped,  as  I  was  a  gentle- 
man, I  would  be  employed  no  more  to  trouble  her  who  had 
never  offended  me,  but  would  be  so  much  the  gentleman's 
friend  as  to  dissuade  him  from  a  pursuit  which  he  could  never 
succeed  in.  You  may  remember,  I  thought  her  in  earnest,  and 
you  were  forced  to  employ  your  cousin  Will,  who  made  his 
sister  get  acquainted  with  her  for  you.  You  cannot  expect  her 
to  be  forever  fifteen."     "  Fifteen  ?  "   replied  my  good  friend  : 


THE  TATLER  79 

"  ah  !  you  little  understand,  you  that  have  lived  a  bachelor, 
how  great,  how  exquisite  a  pleasure  there  is-  in  being  really 
beloved !  It  is  impossible  that  the  most  beauteous  face  in 
nature  should  raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas  as  when  I  look 
upon  that  excellent  woman.  That  fading  in  her  countenance 
is'  chiefly  caused  by  her  watching  with  me  in  my  fever.  This 
was  followed  by  a  fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like  to  have  carried 
her  off  last  winter.  I  tell  you  sincerely,  I  have  so  many  obli- 
gations to  her,  that  I  'cannot  with  any  sort  of  moderation  think 
of  her  present  state  of  health.  But  as  to  what  you  say  of  fif- 
teen, she  gives  me  every  day  pleasures  beyond  what  I  ever  knew 
in  the  possession  of  her  beauty  when  I  was  in  the  vigour  of 
youth.  Every  moment  of  her  life  brings  me  fresh  instances 
of  her  complacency  to  my  inclinations,  and  her  prudence  in 
regard  to  my  fortune.  Her  face  is  to  me  much  more  beautiful 
than  when  I  first  saw  it ;  there  is  no  decay  in  any  feature  which 
I  cannot  trace  from  the  very  instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some 
anxious  concern  for  my  welfare  and  interests.  Thus  at  the 
same  time,  methinks,  the  love  I  conceived  towards  her  for  what 
she  was,  is  heightened  by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The 
love  of  a  wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion  commonly 
called  by  that  name,  as  the  loud  laughter  of  buffoons  is  inferior 
to  the  elegant  mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh  !  she  is  an  inestimable 
jewel.  In  her  examination  of  her  household  affairs,  she  shows 
a  certain  fearfulness  to  find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  servants 
obey  her  like  children  ;  and  the  meanest  we  have  has  an  ingen- 
uous shame  for  an  offence;  not  always  to  be  seen  in  children 
in  other  families,  I  speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend  ;  ever 
since  her  sickness,  things  that  gave  me  the  quickest  joy  before, 
turn  now  to  a  certain  anxiety.  As  the  children  play  in  the  next 
room,  I  know  the  poor  things  by  their  steps,  and  am  consider- 
ing what  they  must  do,  should  they  lose  their  mother  in  their 
tender  years.  The  pleasure  I  used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy 
stories  of  the  battles,  and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the 
disposal  of  her  baby,  and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into 
inward  reflection  and  melancholy." 


8o  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when  the  good 
lady  entered,  and  with  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  her  coun- 
tenance told  us,  she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for  some- 
thing very  good  to  treat  such  an  old  friend  as  I  was.  Her 
husband's  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of 
her  countenance  ;  and  I  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an  instant. 
The  lady  observing  something  in  our  looks  which  showed  we 
had  been  more  serious  than  ordinary,  and  seeing  her  husband 
receive  her  with  great  concern  under  a  forced  cheerfulness, 
immediately  guessed  at  what  we  had  been  talking  of ;  and 
applying  herself  to  me,  said,  with  a  smile,  '"  Mr.  Bickerstaff, 
don't  believe  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you.  I  shall  still  live  to 
have  you  for  my  second,  as  I  have  often  promised  you,  unless 
he  takes  more  care  of  himself  than  he  has  clone  since  his  com- 
ing to  town.  You  must  know,  he  tells  me  that  he  finds  London 
is  a  much  more  healthy  place  than  the  country ;  for  he  sees 
several  of  his  old  acquaintance  and  school-fellows  are  here, 
young' fellows  with  fair  full-bottomed  periwigs.  I  could  scarce 
keep  him  this  morning  from  going  out  open-breasted."  My 
friend,  who  is  always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agreeable 
humour,  made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She  did  it  with  that  easi- 
ness which  is  peculiar  to  women  of  sense  ;  and  to  keep  up  the 
good  humour  she  had  brought  in  with  her,  turned  her  raillery 
upon  me.  "  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  you  remember  you  followed  me 
one  night  from  the  play-house  ;  suppose  you  should  carry  me 
thither  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me  into  the  front  box."  This 
put  us  into  a  long  field  of  discourse  about  the  beauties,  who 
were  mothers  to  the  present,  and  shone  in  the  boxes  twenty 
years  ago.  I  told  her,  I  was  glad  she  had  transferred  so  many 
of  her  charms,  and  I  did  not  question  but  her  eldest  daughter 
was  within  half-a-year  of  being  a  toast. 

We  were  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fantastical  preferment 
of  the  young  lady,  when  on  a  sudden  we  were  alarmed  with 
the  noise  of  a  drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  godson 
to  give  me  a  point  of  war.  His  mother,  between  laughing  and 
chiding,  would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room ;   but  I  would 


THE  TATLER  8 1 

not  part  with  him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation  with  him, 
though  he  was  a  httle  noisy  in  his  mirtli,  that  the  child  had 
excellent  parts,  and  was  a  great  master  of  all  the  learning 
on  the  other  side  eight  years  old.  I  perceived  him  a  very 
great  historian  in  ^sop's  Fables  ;  but  he  frankly  declared  to 
me  his  mind,  that  he  did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  because 
he  did  not  believe  they  were  true ;  for  w^hich  reason,  I  found 
he  had  very  much  turned  his  studies,  for  about  a  twelve-month 
past,  into  the  lives  and  adventures  of  Don  Bellianis  of  Greece, 
Guy  of  Warwick,  the  Seven  Champions,  and  other  historians 
of  that  age.  I  could  not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the  father 
took  in  the  forwardness  of  his  son  ;  and  that  these  diversions 
might  turn  to  some  profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  remarks, 
which  might  be  of  service  to  him  during  the  course  of  his 
whole  life.  He  w^ould  tell  you  the  mismanagements  of  John 
Hickathrift,  find  fault  with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of 
Southampton,  and  loved  St.  George  for  being  the  champion 
of  England  ;  and  by  this  means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly 
moulded  into  the  notions  of  discretion,  virtue,  and  honour.  I 
was  extolling  his  accomplishments,  w^hen  the  mother  told  me, 
that  the  little  girl  who  led  me  in  this  morning  was  in  her  way 
a  better  scholar  than  he.  "Betty,"  says  she,  "deals  chiefly 
in  fairies  and  sprites  ;  and  sometimes  in  a  w'inter  night  wall 
terrify  the  maids  with  her  accounts,  until  they  are  afraid  to 
go  up  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  until  it  was  ver}'  late,  sometimes  in  merr\-, 
sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  particular  pleasure, 
which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a  sense 
that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  I  went  home,  consid- 
ering the  different  conditions  of  a  married  life  and  that  of  a 
bachelor ;  and  I  must  confess,  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  con- 
cern to  reflect  that  whenever  I  go  off  I  shall  leave  no  traces 
behind  me.  In  this  pensive  mood  I  returned  to  my  family  ; 
that  is  to  say,  to  my  maid,  my  dog,  and  my  cat,  who  only  can 
be  the  better  or  worse  for  what  happens  to  me.    [Steele] 


82  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

THE  CLUB  AT  THE  TRUMPET 

No.  132.    February  11,  1710 

Habeo  seneduti  magfiafti  gratiam,  qucr  mihi  scrmonis  aviditatem  aiixif, 
potionis  et  cibi  sustulii. 

Sheer  Latie,  Febnia}y  10 

After  having  applied  my  mind  with  more  than  ordinary 
attention  to  my  studies,  it  is  my  usual  custom  to  relax  and 
unbend  it  in  the  conversation  of  such  as  are  rather  easy  than 
shining  companions.  This  I  find  particularly  necessary  for  me 
before  I  retire  to  rest,  in  order  to  draw  my  slumbers  upon  me 
by  degrees,  and  fall  asleep  insensibly.  This  is  the  particular 
use  I  make  of  a  set  of  heavy  honest  men,  with  whom  I  have 
passed  many  hours,  with  much  indolence,  though  not  with 
great  pleasure.  Their  conversation  is  a  kind  of  preparative  for 
sleep  :  it  takes  the  mind  down  from  its  abstractions,  leads  it 
into  the  familiar  traces  of  thought,  and  lulls  it  into  that  state 
of  tranquillity,  which  is  the  condition  of  a  thinking  man  when 
he  is  but  half  awake.  After  this,  my  reader  will  not  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  the  account  which  I  am  about  to  give  of  a  club 
of  my  own  contemporaries,  among  whom  I  pass  two  or  three 
hours  every  evening.  This  I  look  upon  as  taking  my  first  nap 
before  I  go  to  bed.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  should  think  myself 
unjust  to  posterity,  as  well  as  to  the  society  at  the  Trumpet,  of 
which  I  am  a  member,  did  not  I  in  some  part  of  my  writings 
give  an  account  of  the  persons  among  whom  I  have  passed 
almost  a  sixth  part  of  my  time  for  these  last  forty  years.  Our 
club  consisted  originally  of  fifteen  ;  but  partly  by  the  severity 
of  the  law  in  arbitrary  times,  and  partly  by  the  natural  effects 
of  old  age,  we  are  at  present  reduced  to  a  third  part  of  that 
number  :  in  which,  however,  we  have  this  consolation,  that  the 
best  company  is  said  to  consist  of  five  persons.  I  must  con- 
fess, besides  the  aforementioned  benefit  which  I  meet  with 
in  the  conversation  of  this  select  society,  I  am  not  the  less 


THE  T A  TIER  83 

pleased  with  the  company,  in  that  I  find  myself  the  greatest 
wit  among  them,  and  am  heard  as  their  oracle  in  all  points  of 
learning  and  difficulty. 

Sir  Jeoffrey  Notch,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the  club,  has  been 
in  possession 'of  the  right-hand  chair  time  out  of  mind,  and  is 
the  only  man  among  us  that  has  the  liberty  of  stirring  the  fire. 
This  our  foreman  is  a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family,  that 
came  to  a  great  estate  some  years  before  he  had  discretion, 
and  run  it  out  in  hounds,  horses,  and  cock-fighting  ;  for  which 
reason  he  looks  upon  himself  as  an  honest  worthy  gentleman 
who  has  had  misfortunes  in  the  world,  and  calls  every  thriving 
man  a  pitiful  upstart. 

Major  Matchlock  is  the  next  senior,  who  served  in  the  last 
civil  wars,  and  has  all  the  battles  by  heart.  He  does  not  think 
any  action  in  Europe  worth  talking  of  since  the  fight  of 
Marston  Moor  ;  and  every  night  tells  us  of  his  having  been 
knocked  off  his  horse  at  the  rising  of  the  London  apprentices  ; 
for  which  he  is  in  great  esteem  among  us. 

Honest  old  Dick  Reptile  is  the  third  of  our  society : 
he  is  a  good-natured  indolent  man,  who  speaks  little  him- 
self, but  laughs  at  our  jokes,  and  brings  his  young  nephew 
along  with  him,  a  }'outh  of  eighteen  years  old,  to  show  him 
good  company,  and  give  him  a  taste  of  the  world.  This 
)-oung  fellow  sits  generally  silent ;  but  whenever  he  opens 
his  mouth,  or  laughs  at  anything  that  passes,  he  is  con- 
stantly told  by  his  uncle,  after  a  jocular  manner,  "Ay,  ay. 
Jack,  you  young  men  think  us  fools  ;  but  we  old  men  know 
you  are." 

The  greatest  wit  of  our  company,  next  to  myself,  is  a 
bencher  of  the  neighbouring  inn,  who  in  his  youth  frecjuented 
the  ordinaries  about  Charing  Cross,  and  pretends  to  have 
been  intimate  with  Jack  Ogle.  He  has  about  ten  distichs  of 
HucUbras  without  book,  and  never  leaves  the  club  till  he 
has  applied  them  all.  If  any  modern  wit  be  mentioned,  or  any 
town  frolic  spoken  of,  he  shakes  his  head  at  the  dulness  of 
the  present  age,  and  tells  us  a  story  of  Jack  Ogle. 


84  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  esteemed  among  them,  because  they 
see  I  am  something  respected  by  others,  though  at  the  same 
time  I  understand  by  their  behaviour,  that  I  am  considered  by 
them  as  a  man  of  a  great  deal  of  learning,  but  no  knowledge 
of  the  world ;  insomuch  that  the  Major  sometimes,  in  the 
height  of  his  military  pride,  calls  me  the  philosopher :  and 
Sir  Jeoffrey,  no  longer  ago  than  last  night,  upon  a  dispute 
what  day  of  the  month  it  was  then  in  Holland,  pulled  his 
pipe  out  of  liis  moutli,  and  cried,  "  What  does  the  scholar 
say  to  it  ?  " 

Our  club  meets  precisely  at  six  o'clock  in  tlie  evening  ;  but 
I  did  not  come  last  night  until  half  an  hour  after  seven,  by 
which  means  I  escaped  tlie  battle  of  Naseby,  which  the  Major 
usually  begins  at  about  three-quarters  after  six  ;  I  found  also, 
that  my  good  friend  the  bencher  had  already  spent  three  of 
his  distichs,  and  only  waiting  an  opportunity  to  hear  a  sermon 
spoken  of,  that  he  might  introduce  the  couplet  where  "  a 
stick  "  rhymes  to  "  ecclesiastic."  At  my  entrance  into  the  room, 
they  were  naming  a  red  petticoat  and  a  cloak,  by  which  I 
found  that  the  bencher  had  been  diverting  them  with  a  story 
of  Jack  Ogle, 

I  had  no  sooner  taken  my  seat,  but  Sir  Jeoffrey,  to  show 
his  good-will  towards  me,  gave  me  a  pipe  of  his  own  tobacco, 
and  stirred  up  the  fire.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  point  of  morality, 
to  be  obliged  by  those  who  endeavour  to  oblige  me  ;  and.there- 
forc,  in  requital  for  his  kindness,  and  to  set  the  conversation 
a-going,  I  took  the  best  occasion  I  could  to  put  hini  upon  tell- 
ing us  the  story  of  old  Gantlett,  which  he  always  does  with 
very  particular  concern.  He  traced  up  his  descent  on  both 
sides  for  several  generations,  describing  his  diet  and  manner 
of  life,  with  his  several  battles,  and  particularly  that  in  which 
he  fell.  This  Gantlett  was  a  game-cock,  upon  whose  head  the 
knight  in  his  youth  had  won  five  hundred  pounds,  and  lost 
two  thousand.  This  naturally  set  the  Major  upon  the  account 
of  Edge-hill  fight,  and  ended  in  a  duel  of  Jack  Ogle's. 


rilE  TATLER  85 

Old  Reptile  was  extremely  attentive  to  all  that  was  said, 
though  it  was  the  same  he  had  heard  every  night  for  these 
twenty  years,  and,  upon  all  occasions,  winked  upon  his  nephew 
to  mind  what  passed. 

This  may  suffice  to  give  the  world  a  taste  of  our  innocent 
conversation,  which  we  spun  out  until  about  ten  of  the  clock, 
when  my  maid  came  with  a  lantern  to  light  me  home.  I  could 
not  but  reflect  with  myself,  as  I  was  going  out,  upon  the  talka- 
tive humour  of  old  men,  and  the  little  figure  which  that  part 
of  life  makes  in  one  who  cannot  employ  this  natural  propensity 
in  discourses  which  would  make  him  venerable.  I  must  own, 
it  makes  me  very  melancholy  in  company,  when  I  hear  a  young 
man  begin  a  story  ;  and  have  often  observed,  that  one  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  long  in  a  man  of  five-and-twenty,  gathers 
circumstances  every  time  he  tells  it,  until  it  grows  into  a  long 
Canterbury  tale  of  two  hours  by  that  time  he  is  threescore. 

The  only  way  of  a\oiding  such  a  trifling  and  frivolous  old 
age  is  to  lay  up  in  our  way  to  it  such  stores  of  knowledge  and 
observation  as  may  make  us  useful  and  agreeable  in  our  declin- 
ing years.  The  mind  of  man  in  a  long  life  will  become  a  maga- 
zine of  wisdom  or  folly,  and  will  consequently  discharge  itself 
in  something  impertinent  or  improving.  For  which  reason,  as 
there  is  nothing  more  ridiculous  than  an  old  trifling  story-teller, 
so  there  is  nothing  more  venerable  than  one  who  has  turned 
his  experience  to  the  entertainment  and  advantage  of  mankind. 

In  short,  we  who  are  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  and  are  apt  to 
indulge  ourselves  in  talk,  ought  to  consider,  if  what  we  speak 
be  worth  being  heard,  and  endeavour  to  make  our  discourse 
like  that  of  Nestor,  which  Homer  compares  to  the  flowing  of 
honey  for  its  sweetness. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  thought  guilty  of  this  excess  I  am 
speaking  of,  when  I  cannot  conclude  without  observing,  that 
Milton  certainly  thought  of  this  passage  in  Homer,  when,  in 
his  description  of  an  eloquent  spirit,  he  says,  "His  tongue 
dropped  manna."    [Steele] 


86  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  TOM   FOLIO 

No.  1 58.    April  13,  1 7 10 

Faciunt  me  intelligc/ido,  iit  niliil  hitelligaiit. 
Front  viy  tnvji  Apart ineiit,  ^ipril  12 

Tom  Folio  is  a  broker  in  learning,  employed  to  get  together 
good  editions,  and  stock  the  libraries  of  great  men.  There  is 
not  a  sale  of  books  begins  till  Tom  Folio  is  seen  at  the  door. 
There  is  not  an  auction  where  his  name  is  not  heard,  and  that 
too  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  in  the  critical  moment,  before  the 
last  decisive  stroke  of  the  hammer.  There  is  not  a  sul:)Scription 
goes  forward,  in  which  Tom  is  not  privy  to  the  first  rough 
draught  of  the  proposals ;  nor  a  catalogue  printed,  that  does  not 
come  to  him  wet  from  the  press.  He  is  an  universal  scholar, 
so  far  as  the  title-page  of  all  authors,  knows  the  manuscripts 
in  which  they  were  discovered,  the  editions  through  which  they 
have  passed,  with  the  praises  or  censures  which  they  have  re- 
ceived from  the  several  members  of  the  learned  world.  He  has 
a  greater  esteem  for  Aldus  and  Elzevir  than  for  Virgil  and 
Horace.  If  you  talk  of  Herodotus,  he  breaks  out  into  a  pane- 
gyric upon  Harry  Stephans.  He  thinks  he  gives  you  an  ac- 
count of  an  author  when  he  tells  you  the  subject  he  treats  of, 
the  name  of  the  editor,  and  the  year  in  which  it  was  printed. 
Or  if  you  draw  him  into  further  particulars,  he  cries  up  the 
goodness  of  the  paper,  extolls  the  diligence  of  the  corrector, 
and  is  transported  with  the  beauty  of  the  letter.  This  he  looks 
upon  to  be  sound  learning  and  substantial  criticism.  As  for 
those  who  talk  of  the  fineness  of  style,  and  the  justness  of 
thought,  or  describe  the  brightness  of  any  particular  passages, 
nay,  though  they  write  themselves  in  the  genius  and  spirit  of 
the  author  they  admire,  Tom  looks  upon  them  as  men  of 
superficial  learning  and  flashy  parts. 

I  had  yesterday  morning  a  visit  from  this  learned  idiot  (for 
that  is  the  light  in  which  I  consider  every  pedant),  when  I 


THE  TATLER  87 

discovered  in  him  some  little  touches  of  the  coxcomb  which  I 
had  not  before  observed.  Being  very  full  of  the  figure  which 
he  makes  in  the  republic  of  letters,  and  wonderfully  satisfied 
with  his  great  stock  of  knowledge,  he  gave  me  broad  intima- 
tions that  he  did  not  "believe  "  in  all  points  as  his  forefathers 
had  done.  He  then  communicated  to  me  a  thought  of  a  cer- 
tain author  upon  a  passage  of  Virgil's  account  of  the  dead, 
which  I  made  the  subject  of  a  late  paper.  This  thought  has 
taken  very  much  among  men  of  Tom's  pitch  and  understand- 
ing, though  universally  exploded  by  all  that  know  how  to  con- 
strue Virgil,  or  have  any  relish  of  antiquity.  Not  to  trouble 
my  reader  with  it,  I  found  upon  the  whole  that  Tom  did  not 
believe  a  future  state  of  rewards  and  punishments,  because 
^neas,  at  his  leaving  the  empire  of  the  dead,  passed  through 
the  gatef  of  ivory,  and  not  through  that  of  horn.  Knowing  that 
Tom  had  not  sense  enough  to  give  up  an  opinion  which  he 
had  once  received,  that  he  might  avoid  wrangling,  I  told  him 
that  Virgil  possibly  had  his  oversights  as  well  as  another  author. 
"Ah!  Mr.  Bickerstaff,"  says  he,  "you  would  have  another 
opinion  of  him  if  you  would  read  him  in  Daniel  Heinsius'  edi- 
tion. I  have  perused  him  myself  several  times  in  that  edition," 
continued  he;  "and  after  the  strictest  and  most  malicious  ex- 
amination, could  find  but  two  faults  in  him  :  one  of  them  is  in 
the  y^neids,  where  there  are  two  commas  instead  of  a  paren- 
thesis ;  and  another  in  the  third  Gco?-gic,  where  you  may  find 
a  semicolon  turned  upside  down."  "  Perhaps,"  said  I,  "  these 
were  not  Virgil's  faults,  but  those  of  the  transcriber."  "  I  do 
not  design  it,"  says  Tom,  "as  a  reflection  on  Virgil:  on  the 
contrar}',  I  know  that  all  the  manuscripts  reclaim  against  such 
a  punctuation.  Oh  !  Mr.  Bickerstaff,"  says  he,  "what  would  a 
man  give  to  see  one  simile  of  \Trgil  writ  in  his  own  hand  1  " 
I  asked  him  which  was  the  simile  he  meant,  but  was  answered, 
"Any  simile  in  Virgil."  He  then  told  me  all  the  secret  history 
in  the  commonwealth  of  learning  :  of  modern  pieces  that  had 
the  names  of  ancient  authors  annexed  to  them  ;  of  all  the 
books  that  were  now  writing  or  printing  in  the  several  parts 


88  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  Europe  ;  of  many  amendments  which  are  made,  and  not 
yet  pubhshed  ;  and  a  thousand  other  particulars,  which  I  would 
not  have  my  memory  burthened  with  for  a  Vatican. 

At  length,  being  fully  persuaded  that  I  thoroughly  admired 
him  and  looked  upon  him  as  a  prodigy  of  learning,  he  took 
his  leave.  I  know  several  of  Tom's  class  who  are  professed 
admirers  of  Tasso  without  understanding  a  word  of  Italian, 
and  one  in  particular  that  carries  a  Pastor  Fido  in  his  pocket, 
in  which  I  am  sure  he  is  acquainted  with  no  other  beauty 
but  the  clearness  of  the  character. 

There  is  another  kind  of  pedant  who,  with  all  Tom  Folio's 
impertinences,  hath  greater  superstructures  and  embellishnients 
of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  is  still  more  unsupportable  than  the 
other,  in  the  same  degree  as  he  is  more  learned.  Of  this  kind 
very  often  are  editors,  commentators,  interpreters,  scholiasts, 
and  critics,  and  in  short,  all  men  of  deep  learning  without  com- 
mon sense,  lliese  persons  set  a  greater  value  on  themselves 
for  having  found  out  the  meaning  of  a  passage  in  Greek,  than 
upon  the  author  for  having  written  it ;  nay,  will  allow  the  pas- 
sage itself  not  to  have  any  beauty  in  it,  at  the  same  time  that 
they  would  be  considered  as  the  greatest  men  of  the  age  for 
having  interpreted  it.  They  will  look  with  contempt  upon  the 
most  beautiful  poems  that  have  been  composed  by  any  of  their 
contemporaries;  but  will  lock  themselves  up  in  their  studies 
for  a  twelvemonth  together  to  correct,  publish,  and  expound 
such  trifles  of  antiquity  as  a  modern  author  would  be  contemned 
for.  Men  of  the  strictest  morals,  severest  lives,  and  the  gravest 
professions  will  write  volumes  upon  an  idle  sonnet  that  is  origi- 
nally in  Greek  or  Latin,  give  editions  of  the  most  immoral 
authors,  and  spin  out  whole  pages  upon  the  various  readings 
of  a  lewd  expression.  All  that  can  be  said  in  excuse  for  them 
is  that  their  works  sufficiently  show  they  have  no  taste  of  their 
authors,  and  that  what  they  do  in  this  kind  is  out  of  their  great 
learning  and  not  out  of  any  levity  or  lasciviousness  of  temper. 

A  pedant  of  this  nature  is  wonderfully  well  described  in  six 
lines  of  Boileau,  with  which  I  shall  conclude  his  character : 


THE  TATLER  89 

Un  Pedant  cnivre  de  sa  vaine  science^ 
Tout  /u'/isse  de  Grec,  tout  boujfi  d''an-oj^ance, 
Et  qui,  de  mille  auteurs  fetenus  viot  pour  mot, 
Dans  sa  tete  entasses  li'a  souvent  fait  qii'un  sot, 
Croit  (iit'un  liv)'e  fait  tout,  fir^  que,  sans  Aristote, 
La  raison  ne  voit  goutte,  &^  le  ban  sens  radote. 

[Addison] 


RECOLLECTIONS 

No.  181.    June  6,  1710 
Dies,  ni  fall  or,  adest,  quern  semper  acerb  urn, 


Semper  honoratum  {sic  di  voluistis),  habebo. 
Fioni  my  own  Apaitntcnf,fune§ 

There  are  those  among  mankind  who  can  enjoy  no  rcHsli 
of  their  being  except  the  world  is  made  acquainted  with  all 
that  relates  to  them,  and  think  everything  lost  that  passes 
unobserved  ;  but  others  find  a  solid  delight  in  stealing  by  the 
crowd,  and  modelling  their  life  after  such  a  manner  as  is  as 
much  above  the  approbation  as  the  practice  of  the  vulgar.  Life 
being  too  short  to  give  instances  great  enough  of  true  friend- 
ship or  good-will,  some  sages  have  thought  it  pious  to  preserve 
a  certain  reverence  for  the  manes  of  their  deceased  friends, 
and  have  withdrawn  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  world  at 
certain  seasons,  to  commemorate  in  their  own  thoughts  such 
of  their  acquaintance  who  have  gone  before  them  out  of  this 
life  :  and  indeed,  when  we  are  advanced  in  years,  there  is  not 
a  more  pleasing  entertainment  than  to  recollect  in  a  gloomy 
moment  the  many  we  have  parted  with  that  have  been  dear 
and  agreeable  to  us,  and  to  cast  a  melancholy  thought  or  two 
after  those  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  have  indulged  ourselves 
in  whole  nights  of  mirth  and  jollity.  With  such  inclinations 
in  my  heart  I  went  to  my  closet  yesterday  in  the  evening,  and 
resolved  to  be  sorrowful ;  upon  which  occasion  I  could  not  but 
look  with  disdain   upon  myself,   that  though  all   the  reasons 


90  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

which  I  had  to  lament  the  loss  of  many  of  my  friends  are  now 
as  forcible  as  at  the  moment  of  their  departure,  yet  did  not 
my  heart  swell  with  the  same  sorrow  which  I  felt  at  that  time ; 
but  I  could,  without  tears,  reflect  upon  many  pleasing  adven- 
tures I  have  had  with  some  who  have  long  been  blended  with 
common  earth.  Though  it  is  by  the  benefit  of  nature  that 
length  of  time  thus  blots  out  the  violence  of  afflictions  ;  yet 
with  tempers  too  much  given  to  pleasure,  it  is  almost  necessary 
to  revive  the  old  places  of  grief  in  our  memory,  and  ponder 
step  by  step  on  past  life,  to  lead  the  mind  into  that  sobriety 
of  thought  which  poises  the  heart,  and  makes  it  beat  with  due 
time,  without  being  quickened  with  desire,  or  retarded  with 
despair,  from  its-  proper  and  equal  motion.  When  we  wind 
up  a  clock  that  is  out  of  order,  to  make  it  go  well  for  the 
future,  we  do  not  immediately  set  the  hand  to  the  present  in- 
stant, but  we  make  it  strike  the  round  of  all  its  hours,  before 
it  can  recover  the  regularity  of  its  time.  "  Such,"  thought  I, 
"  shall  be  my  method  this  evening  ;  and  since  it  is  that  day 
of  the  year  which  I  dedicate  to  the  memory  of  such  in  an- 
other life  as  I  much  delighted  in  when  living,  an  hour  or  two 
shall  be  sacred  to  sorrow  and  their  memory,  while  I  run  over 
all  the  melancholy  circumstances  of  this  kind  which  have 
occurred  to   me   in   my  whole  life." 

The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  upon  the  death 
of  my  father,  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of  age  ; 
but  was  rather  amazed  at  what  all  the  house  meant  than  pos- 
sessed with  a  real  understanding  why  nobody  was  willing  to 
play  with  me.  I  remember  I  went  into  the  room  where  his 
body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  my 
battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling 
"  Papa  "  ;  for,  I  know  not  how,  I  had  some  slight  idea  that 
he  was  locked  up  there.  My  mother  catched  me  in  her  arms, 
and  transported  beyond  all  patience  of  the  silent  grief  she  was 
before  in,  she  almost  smothered  me  in  her  embrace,  and  told 
me  in  a  flood  of  tears,  papa  could  not  hear  me,  and  would 
play  with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  going  to  put  him  under 


THE  TATLER  91 

ground,  whence  he  could  never  come  to  us  again.  Slie  was 
a  very  beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a 
dignity  in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness  of  her  transport 
which,  methought,  struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow,  which, 
before  I  was  sensible  of  w'hat  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very 
soul,  and  has  made  pity  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since. 
The  mind  in  infancy  is,  methinks,  like  the  body  in  embryo, 
and  receives  impressions  so  forcible  that  they  are  as  hard  to 
be  removed  by  reason  as  any  mark  with  which  a  child  is  born 
is  to  "be  taken  away  by  any  future  application.  Hence  it  is 
that  good-nature  in  me  is  no  merit ;  but  having  been  so  fre- 
quently overwhelmed  with  her  tears  before  I  knew  the  cause 
of  any  affliction,  or  could  draw  defences  from  my  own  judg- 
ment, I  imbibed  commiseration,  remorse,  and  an  unmanly 
gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since  ensnared  me  into  ten 
thousand  calamities,  and  from  whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage, 
except  it  be  that  in  such  a  humour  as  I  am  now  in,  I  can  the 
better  indulge  myself  in  the  softness  of  humanity,  and  enjoy 
that  sweet  anxiety  which  arises  from  the  memor)^  of  past 
afflictions. 

We  that  are  very  old  are  better  able  to  remember  things 
which  befell  us  in  our  distant  youth  than  the  passages  of  later 
days.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  the  companions  of  my  strong 
and  vigorous  years  present  themselves  more  immediately  to  me 
in  this  office  of  sorrow.  Untimely  or  unhappy  deaths  are  what 
we  are  most  apt  to  lament,  so  little  are  we  able  to  make  it  in- 
different when  a  thing  happens,  though  we  know  it  must  happen. 
Thus  we  groan  under  life,  and  bewail  those  who  are  relieved 
from  it.  Every  object  that  returns  to  our  imagination  raises 
different  passions  according  to  the  circumstance  of  their  de- 
parture. Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in  a  serious 
hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and  agreeable  men  that  might 
long  have  flourished  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with  the 
imprecations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the  tyrant  to  whose 
ambition  they  fell  sacrifices  .''  But  gallant  men,  who  are  cut  off 
by  the  sword^  move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity,  and 


92  THE  ENGLISH   EAAHLIAR  ESSAY 

we  gather  relief  enough  from  their  own  eontcmpt  of  death,  to 
make  it  no  evil,  which  was  approached  with  so  much  cheerful- 
ness, and  attended  with  so  much  honour.  But  when  we  turn 
our  thoughts  from  the  great  parts  of  life  on  such  occasions, 
and  instead  of  lamenting  those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death 
to  those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to  receive  it ;  I  say, 
when  we  let  our  thoughts  wander  from  such  noble  objects,  and 
consider  the  havoc  which  is  made  among  the  tender  and  the 
innocent,  pity  enters  with  an  unmixed  softness,  and  possesses 
all  our  souls  at  once. 

Here  (were  there  words  to  express  such  sentiments  with 
proper  tenderness)  I  should  record  the  beauty,  innocence,  and 
untimely  death  of  the  first  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld  with 
love.  The  beauteous  virgin  !  How  ignorantly  did  she  charm, 
how  carelessly  excel !  O,  Death !  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold, 
to  the  ambitious,  to  the  high,  and  to  the  haughty  ;  but  why 
this  cruelty  to  the  humble,  to  the  meek,  to  the  undiscerning,  to 
the  thoughtless  ?  Nor  age,  nor  business,  nor  distress  can  erase 
the  dear  image  from  my  imagination.  In  the  same  week,  I 
saw  her  dressed  for  a  ball,  and  in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the 
habit  of  Death  become  the  pretty  trifler !  I  still  behold  the 
smiling  earth  —  A  large  train  of  disasters  were  coming  on  to 
my  memory,  when  my  servant  knocked  at  my  closet-door,  and 
interrupted  me  with  a  letter,  attended  with  a  hamper  of  wine, 
of  the  same  sort  with  that  which  is  to  be  put  to  sale  on  Thurs- 
day next  at  Garraway's  Coffee-house.  Upon  the  receipt  of  it 
I  sent  for  three  of  my  friends.  We  are  so  intimate  that  we 
can  be  company  in  whatever  state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can 
entertain  each  other  without  expecting  always  to  rejoice.  The 
wine  we  found  to  be  generous  and  warming,  but  with  such  a 
heat  as  moved  us  rather  to  be  cheerful  than  frolicsome.  It 
revived  the  spirits  without  firing  the  blood.  We  commended 
it  till  two  of  the  clock  this  morning,  and  having  to-day  met  a 
little  before  dinner,  we  found  that,  though  we  drank  two  bottles 
a  man,  we  had  much  more  reason  to  recollect  than  forget 
what   had   passed   the   night  before.    [Steele] 


THE  TATLEA'  93 

FALSE  REFINEMENTS   IN    STYLE 

No.  230.    September  28,  1710 

^Froui  my  own  ^\part)iienf^  Sept.  sy 

The  following  letter  has  laid  before  me  many  great  and 
manifest  evils  in  the  world  of  letters  which  I  had  overlooked  ; 
but  they  open  to  me  a  very  busy  scene,  and  it  will  require  no 
small  care  and  application  to  amend  errors  which  are  become 
so  universal.  The  affectation  of  politeness  is  exposed  in  this 
epistle  with  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  discernment  ;  so  that  what- 
ever discourses  I  may  fall  into  hereafter  upon  the  subjects 
the  writer  treats  of,  I  shall  at  present  la)-  the  matter  before 
the  world  without  tlie  least  alteration  from  the  words  of  my 
correspondent. 

To  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq. 
Sir, 

There  are  some  abuses  among  us  of  great  consequence,  the  reformation 
of  which  is  properly  your  province ;  though,  as  far  as  I  have  been  conver- 
sant in  your  papers,  you  have  not  yet  considered  them.  These  are  the 
deplorable  ignorance  that  for  some  years  hath  reigned  among  our  English 
writers,  the  great  depravity  of  our  taste,  and  the  continual  corruption  of  our 
style.  I  say  nothing  here  of  those  who  handle  particular  sciences,  divinity, 
law,  physic,  and  the  like ;  I  mean  the  traders  in  history  and  politics,  and 
the  belles  leiires,  together  with  those  by  whom  books  are  not  translated,  but 
(as  the  common  expressions  are)  done  out  of  French,  Latin,  or  other  language, 
and  made  English.  I  cannot  but  observe  to  you  that  till  of  late  years  a  Grub 
Street  book  was  always  bound  in  sheepskin,  with  suitable  print  and  paper, 
the  price  never  above  a  shilling,  and  taken  off  wholly  by  common  trades- 
men or  country  pedlars ;  but  now  they  appear  in  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and 
in  all  places.  They  are  handed  about  from  lapfuls  in  every  coffee-house  to 
persons  of  quality ;  are  shown  in  Westminster  Hall  and  the  Court  of  Re- 
quests. You  may  see  them  gilt,  and  in  royal  paper  of  five  or  six  hundred 
pages,  and  rated  accordingly.  I  would  engage  to  furnish  you  with  a  cata- 
logue of  English  books,  published  within  the  compass  of  seven  years  past, 
which  at  the  first  hand  would  cost  you  a  hundred  pounds,  wherein  you  shall 
not  be  able  to  find  ten  lines  together  of  common  grammar  or  common  sense. 

These  two  evils,  ignorance  and  want  of  taste,  have  produced  a  third ;  I 
mean  the  continual  corruption  of  our  English  tongue,  which,  without  some 


94  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

timely  remedy,  will  suffer  more  by  the  false  refinements  of  twenty  years  past 
than  it  hath  been  improved  in  the  foregoing  hundred.  And  this  is  what  I  de- 
sign chiefly  to  enlarge  upon,  leaving  the  former  evils  to  your  animadversion. 
But  instead  of  giving  you  a  list  of  the  late  refinements  crept  into  our 
language,  I  here  send  you  the  copy  of  a  letter  I  received  some  time  ago 
from  a  most  accomplished  person  in  this  way  of  writing ;  upon  which  I 
shall  make  some  remarks.    It  is  in  these  terms : 

"  Sir, 

"  I  cou''d ii't  get  the  things  you  sent  for  all  about  town  —  I  thdt  to  /^a' 
come  down  myself,  and  then  /V/  ]i'  brof  ui)i ;  but  I  Jia'  tit  don  V,  and  I 
believe  I  can't  d't^  tJiat  ''s  pozz — -Tom  begins  to  gi  ' nisei f  2\x?,^  because 
lie  V  going  with  theplejiipo's  — -  'T  is  said  the  French  Iving  will  bamboozTiis 
agen,  which  causes  many  speculations.  The  Jacks  and  others  of  that  kid- 
ney are  very  uppish.,  and  alert  upon  7,  as  you  may  see  by  their  phiss's  — 
Will  Hazzard  has  got  the  Jiipps,  having  lost  to  the  tune  of  five  hundr'd 
pound,  tho  he  understands  play  very  well,  nobody  better.  He  has  promis't 
me  upon  irp,  to  leave  off  play,  but  you  know  't  is  a  weakness  he  V  too 
apt  to  gii'e  into.,  tho  he  has  as  much  wit  as  any  man,  nobody  more.  He 
has  lain  incog  ever  since  —  The  mobb  V  very  quiet  with  us  now  —  I  believe 
you  ///('/  /  banfer\i  you  in  my  last,  like  a  country  put — I  shaiCt  leave 
town  this  month,"  etc. 

This  letter  is  in  every  point  an  admirable  pattern  of  the  present  polite 
way  of  writing,  nor  is  it  of  less  authority  for  being  an  epistle :  you  may 
gather  every  flower  in  it,  with  a  thousand  more  of  equal  sweetness,  from  the 
books,  pamphlets,  and  single  papers  offered  us  every  day  in  the  coffee- 
houses :  and  these  are  the  beauties  introduced  to  supply  the  want  of  wit, 
sense,  humour,  and  learning,  which  formerly  were  looked  upon  as  qualifica- 
tions for  a  writer.  If  a  man  of  wit,  who  died  forty  years  ago,  were  to  rise 
from  the  grave  on  purpose,  how  would  he  be  able  to  read  this  letter  ?  And 
after  he  had  got  through  that  difficulty,  how  would  he  be  able  to  understand 
it  ?  The  first  thing  that  strikes  your  eye,  is  the  breaks  at  the  end  of  almost 
every  sentence,  of  which  I  know  not  the  use,  only  that  it  is  a  refinement, 
and  very  frequently  practised.  Then  you  will  observe  the  abbreviations  and 
elisions,  by  which  consonants  of  most  obdurate  sound  are  joined  together, 
without  one  softening  vowel  to  intervene ;  and  all  this  only  to  make  one 
syllable  of  two,  directly  contrary  to  the  example  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans, 
altogether  of  the  Gothic  strain,  and  a  natural  tendency  towards  relapsing 
into  barbarity,  which  delights  in  monosyllables,  and  uniting  of  mute  con- 
sonants, as  it  is  observable  in  all  the  Northern  languages.  And  this  is  still 
more  visible  in  the  next  refinement,  which  consists  in  pronouncing  the  first 
syllable  in  a  word  that  has  many,  and  dismissing  the  rest ;  such  as  pJiizz., 
Jiipps,  mold),  pozs,  rep,  and  many  more,  when  we  are  already  overloaded 


THE  TATLER  95 

with  monosyllables,  which  are  the  disgrace  of  our  language.  Thus  we  cram 
one  syllable,  and  cut  off  the  rest,  as  the  owl  fattened  her  mice  after  she  had 
bit  off  their  legs  to  prevent  them  from  running  away ;  and  if  ours  be  the 
same  reason  for  maiming  our  words,  it  will  certainly  answer  the  end,  for  I 
am  sure  no  other  nation  will  desire  to  borrow  them.  Some  words  are  hitherto 
but  fairly  split,  and  therefore  only  in  their  way  to  perfection,  as  incog  and 
plenipo  :  but  in  a  short  time  'tis  to  be  hoped  they  will  be  further  docked  to 
inc  2Xidipleii.  This  reflection  has  made  me  of  late  years  very  impatient  for 
a  peace,  which  I  believe  would  save  the  lives  of  many  brave  words,  as  well 
as  men.  The  war  has  introduced  abundance  of  polysyllables,  which  will 
never  be  able  to  live  many  more  campaigns :  speculations,  operations,  pre- 
limi/iaries,  ambassadors,  palisadoes,  convminication,  circtunvallaiion, 
battalioiis :  as  numerous  as  they  are,  if  they  attack  us  too  frequently  in  our 
coffee-houses,  we  shall  certainly  put  them  to  flight,  and  cut  off  the  rear. 

The  third  refinement  observable  in  the  letter  I  send  you  consists  in  the 
choice  of  certain  words,  invented  by  some  pretty  fellows,  such  as  banter, 
bamboozle,  country  put,  and  kidney,  as  it  is  there  applied ;  some  of  which 
are  now  struggling  for  the  vogue,  and  others  are  in  possession  of  it.  I  have 
done  my  utmost  for  some  years  past  to  stop  the  progress  of  mobb  and 
banter,  but  have  been  plainly  borne  down  by  numbers,  and  betrayed  by 
those  who  promised  to  assist  me. 

In  the  last  place,  you  are  to  take  notice  of  certain  choice  phrases  scattered 
through  the  letter,  some  of  them  tolerable  enough,  until  they  were  worn  to 
rags  by  servile  imitators.  You  might  easily  find  them,  though  they  were  not 
in  a  different  print,  and  therefore  I  need  not  disturb  them. 

These  are  the  false  refinements  in  our  style  which  you  ought  to  correct : 
first,  by  argument  and  fair  means  ;  but  if  these  fail,  I  think  you  are  to  make 
use  of  your  authority  as  Censor,  and  by  an  annual  Index  Expurgatorius 
expunge  all  words  and  phrases  that  are  offensive  to  good  sense,  and  condemn 
those  barbarous  mutilations  of  vowels  and  syllables.  In  this  last  point  the 
usual  pretence  is,  that  they  spell  as  they  speak:  a  noble  standard  for  lan- 
guage !  To  depend  upon  the  caprice  of  every  coxcomb  who,  because  wprds 
are  the  clothing  of  our  thoughts,  cuts  them  out  and  shapes  them  as  he  pleases, 
and  changes  them  oftener  than  his  dress !  I  believe  all  reasonable  people 
would  be  content  that  such  refiners  were  more  sparing  in  their  words,  and 
liberal  in  their  syllables :  and  upon  this  head  I  should  be  glad  you  would 
bestow  some  advice  upon  several  young  readers  in  our  churches,  who,  coming- 
up  from  the  university  full  fraught  with  admiration  of  our  town  politeness, 
will  needs  correct  the  style  of  their  prayer-books.  In  reading  the  Abso- 
lution, they  are  very  careful  to  say  pardons  and  absok'es  ;  and  in  the  prayer 
for  the  royal  family,  it  must  be  endue'' um,  enrich'' utfi,  prosper' nm,  and 
bring'' um.  Then  in  their  sermons  they  use  all  the  modern  terms  of  art: 
shajii,  banter,  mobb,  bubble,  bully,  cutting,  shuffling,  and  palming;   all 


96  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

which,  and  many  more  of  the  like  stamp,  as  I  have  heard  them  often  in  the 
pulpit  from  such  young  sophisters,  so  I  have  read  them  in  some  of  those 
sermons  that  have  made  most  noise  of  late.  The  design,  it  seems,  is  to 
avoid  the  dreadful  imputation  of  pedantry ;  to  show  us  that  they  know  the 
town,  understand  men  and  manners,  and  have  not  been  poring  upon  old 
unfashionable  books  in  the  university. 

I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  the  instrument  of  introducing  into  our  style 
that  simplicity  which  is  the  best  and  truest  ornament  of  most  things  in  life, 
which  the  politer  age  always  aimed  at  in  their  building  and  dress  {simplex 
innnditiis\  as  well  as  their  productions  of  wit.  It  is  manifest  that  all  new 
affected  modes  of  speech,  whether  borrowed  from  the  court,  the  town,  or 
the  theatre,  are  the  first  perishing  parts  in  any  language ;  and,  as  I  could 
prove  by  many  hundred  instances,  have  been  so  in  ours.  The  writings  of 
Hooker,  who  was  a  country  clergyman,  and  of  Parsons  the  Jesuit,  both  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  are  in  a  style  that,  with  very  few  allowances, 
would  not  offend  any  present  reader ;  much  more  clear  and  intelligible  than 
those  of  Sir  H.  Wotton,  Sir  Rob.  Naunton,  Osborn,  Daniel  the  historian, 
and  several  others  who  wrote  later;  but  being  men  of  the  court,  and  affect- 
ing the  phrases  then  in  fashion,  they  are  often  either  not  to  be  understood, 
or  appear  perfectly  ridiculous. 

What  remedies  are  to  be  applied  to  these  evils,  I  have  not  room  to 
consider,  having,  I  fear,  already  taken  up  most  of  your  paper.  Besides, 
I  think  it  is  our  office  only  to  represent  abuses,  and  yours  to  redress  them. 
I  am,  with  great  respect, 

Sir, 

Your,  «S:c. 

[Steele  and  Swii'T] 


ON  CONVERSATION 

No.  244.    October  31,  1710 

Quid  vovcat  ditlci  iiutricitla  inajiis  al///n?u), 
Qui  sapcrc  ct  fari  possit  qucc  scntiat  i  — 

IFiirs  Coffee-Juiuse,  Oct.  jo 

It  is  no  easy  matter,  when  people  are  advancing  in  anything, 
to  prevent  their  going  too  fast  for  want  of  ^^atience.  This 
happens  in  nothing  more  frequently  than  in  the  prosecution 
of  studies.     Ilcnce  it  is,  that  we  meet  crowds  who  attempt  to 


THE  lyiTLER  97 

be  eloquent  before  they  can  speak.  They  affect  the  flowers  of 
rhetoric  before  they  understand  the  parts  of  speech.  In  the 
ordinary  conversation  of  this  town,  there  are  so  many  who  can, 
as  they  call  it,  talk  well,  that  there  is  not  one  in  twenty  that 
talks  to  be  understood.  This  proceeds  from  an  ambition  to 
excel,  or,  as  the  term  is,  to  shine,  in  company.  The  matter  is 
not  to  make  themselves  understood,  but  admired.  They  come 
together  with  a  certain  emulation,  rather  than  benevolence. 
When  you  fall  among  such  companions,  the  safe  way  is  to  give 
yourself  up,  and  let  the  orators  declaim  for  your  esteem,  and 
trouble  yourself  no  further.  It  is  said  that  a  poet  must  be  born 
so  ;  but  I  think  it  may  be  much  better  said  of  an  orator,  espe- 
cially when  we  talk  of  our  town  poets  and  orators  ;  but  the  town 
poets  are  full  of  rules  and  laws,  the  town  orators  go  through 
thick  and  thin,  and  are,  forsooth,  persons  of  such  eminent 
natural  parts  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  they  despise 
all  men  as  inexperienced  scholastics  who  wait  for  an  occasion 
before  they  speak,  or  who  speak  no  more  than  is  necessary. 
They  had  half  persuaded  me  to  go  to  the  tavern  the  other 
night,  but  that  a  gentleman  whispered  me,  "  Prithee,  Isaac, 
go  with  us  ;  there  is  Tom  \"arnish  will  be  tliere,  and  he  is  a 
fellow  that  talks  as  well  as  any  man  in  England." 

I  must  confess,  when  a  man  expresses  himself  well  upon  any 
occasion,  and  his  falling  into  an  account  of  any  subject  arises 
from  a  desire  to  oblige  the  company,  or  from  fulness  of  the 
circumstance  itself,  so  that  his  speaking  of  it  at  large  is  occa- 
sioned only  by  the  openness  of  a  companion  ;  I  say,  in  such  a 
case  as  this,  it  is  not  only  pardonable  but  agreeable,  when  a  man 
takes  the  discourse  to  himself;  but  when  you  see  a  fellow  watch 
for  opportunities  for  being  copious,  it  is  excessively  troublesome. 
A  man  that  stammers,  if  he  has  understanding,  is  to  be  at- 
tended with  patience  and  good-nature ;  but  he  that  speaks  more 
than  he  need,  has  no  right  to  such  an  indulgence.  The  man 
who  has  a  defect  in  his  speech  takes  pains  to  come  to  you, 
while  a  man  of  a  weak  capacity  with  fluency  of  speech  tri- 
umphs  in  outrunning  you.    The  stammerer  strives  to  be  fit 


98  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

for  your  company ;  the  loquacious  man  endeavours  to  show 
you,  you  are  not  fit  for  his. 

With  thoughts  of  this  kind  do  I  always  enter  into  that  man's 
company  who  is  recommended  as  a  person  that  talks  well ;  but 
if  I  were  to  choose  the  people  with  whom  I  would  spend  my 
hours  of  conversation,  they  should  be  certainly  such  as  laboured 
no  further  than  to  make  themselves  readily  and  clearly  appre- 
hended, and  would  have  patience  and  curiosity  to  understand 
me.  To  have  good  sense  and  the  ability  to  express  it  are  the 
most  essential  and  necessary  qualities  in  companions.  When 
thoughts  rise  in  us  fit  to  utter,  among  familiar  friends  there 
needs  but  very  little  care  in  clothing  them. 

Urbanus  is,  I  take  it,  a  man  one  might  live  with  whole  years, 
and  enjoy  all  the  freedom  and  improvement  imaginable,  and 
yet  be  insensible  of  a  contradiction  to  you  in  all  the  mistakes 
you  can  be  guilty  of.  His  great  good-will  to  his  friends  has 
produced  in  him  such  a  general  deference  in  his  discourse  that 
if  he  differs  from  you  in  his  sense  of  anything,  he  introduces 
his  own  thoughts  by  some  agreeable  circumlocution,  or  he  has 
often  observed  such  and  such  a  circumstance  that  made  him  of 
another  opinion.  Again,  where  another  would  be  apt  to  say, 
"This  I  am  confident  of;  I  may  pretend  to  judge  of  this  matter 
as  well  as  anybody ;  "  Urbanus  says,  "  I  am  verily  persuaded  ; 
I  believe  one  may  conclude."  In  a  word,  there  is  no  man  more 
clear  in  his  thoughts  and  expressions  than  he  is,  or  speaks  with 
greater  diffidence.  You  shall  hardly  find  one  man  of  any  con- 
sideration, but  you  shall  obsei've  one  of  less  consequence  form 
himself  after  him.  This  happens  to  Urbanus  ;  but  the  man 
who  steals  from  him  almost  every  sentiment  he  utters  in  a 
whole  week,  disguises  the  theft  by  carrying  it  with  quite  a  dif- 
ferent air.  Umbratilis  knows  Urbanus 's  doubtful  way  of  speak- 
ing proceeds  from  good-nature  and  good-breeding  and  not  from 
uncertainty  in  his  opinions.  Umbratilis  therefore  has  no  more 
to  do  but  repeat  the  thoughts  of  Urbanus  in  a  positive  manner, 
and  appear  to  the  undiscerning  a  wiser  man  than  the  person 
from  whom  he  borrows  :  but  those  who  know  him  can  see  the 


THE  TATLER  gg 

servant  in  the  master's  habit,  and  the  more  he  struts,  the  less 
do  his  clothes  appear  his  own. 

In  conversation  the  medium  is  neither  to  affect  silence  nor 
eloquence  ;  not  .to  value  our  approbation,  and  to  endeavour  to 
excel  us  who  are  of  your  company,  are  equal  injuries.  The 
great  enemies  therefore  to  good  company,  and  those  who  trans- 
gress most  against  the  laws  of  equality  (which  is  the  life  of  it), 
are  the  clown,  the  wit,  and  the  pedant.  A  clown,  when  he  has 
sense,  is  conscious  of  his  want  of  education,  and  with  an  awk- 
ward bluntness  hopes  to  keep  himself  in  countenance  by  over- 
throwing the  use  of  all  polite  behaviour.  He  takes  advantage 
of  the  restraint  good-breeding  lays  upon  others  not  to  offend 
him,  to  trespass  against  them,  and  is  under  the  man's  own 
shelter  while  he  intrudes  upon  him.  The  fellows  of  this  class 
are  very  frequent  in  the  repetition  of  the  words  "rough  "  and 
"  manly."  When  these  people  happen  to  be  by  their  fortunes 
of  the  rank  of  gentlemen,  they  defend  their  other  absurdities  by 
an  impertinent  courage  ;  and  to  help  out  the  defect  of  their  be- 
haviour, add  their  being  dangerous  to  their  being  disagreeable. 
This  gendeman  (though  he  displeases,  professes  to  do  so,  and 
knowing  that,  dares  still  go  on  to  do  so)  is  not  so  painful  a 
companion  as  he  who  will  please  you  against  your  will,  and 
resolves  to  be  a  wit. 

This  man,  upon  all  occasions  and  whoever  he  falls  in  com- 
pany with,  talks  in  the  same  circle  and  in  the  same  round  of 
chat  which  he  has  learned  at  one  of  the  tables  of  this  coffee- 
house. As  poetry  is  in  itself  an  elevation  above  ordinary  and 
common  sentiments,  so  there  is  no  fop  so  near  a  madman  in 
indifferent  company  as  a  poetical  one.  He  is  not  apprehensive 
that  the  generality  of  the  world  are  intent  upon  the  business 
of  their  own  fortune  and  profession,  and  have  as  little  capacity 
as  curiosity  to  enter  into  matters  of  ornament  or  speculation. 
I  remember  at  a  full  table  in  the  City  one  of  these  ubiquitary 
wits  was  entertaining  the  company  with  a  soliloquy  (for  so  I 
call  it  when  a  man  talks  to  those  who  do  not  understand  him) 
concerning  wit  and  humour.  An  honest  gentleman  w^ho  sat  next 


lOO  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

to  me  and  was  worth  half  a  plum  stared  at  him,  and  observing 
there  was  some  sense,  as  he  thought,  mixed  with  his  imperti- 
nence, whispered  me,  ""Take  my  word  for  it,  this  fellow  is  more 
knave  than  fool."  This  was  all  my  good  friend's  applause  of 
the  wittiest  man  of  talk  that  I  was  ever  present  at,  which  wanted 
nothing  to  make  it  excellent  but  that  there  was  no  occasion 
for  it. 

The  pedant  is  so  obvious  to  ridicule  that  it  would  be  to  be 
one  to  offer  to  explain  him.  He  is  a  gentleman  so  well  known 
that  there  is  none  but  those  of  his  own  class  who  do  not  laugh 
at  and  avoid  him.  Pedantry  proceeds  from  much  reading  and 
little  understanding.  A  pedant  among  men  of  learning  and 
sense  is  like  an  ignorant  servant  giving  an  account  of  a  polite 
conversation.  You  may  find  he  has  brought  with  him  more 
than  could  have  entered  into  his  head  without  being  there,  but 
still  that  he  is  not  a  bit  wiser  than  if  he  had  not  been  there 
at  all.    [Stickle] 


THE  SPECTATOR  (1711-1712) 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  MR.  SPECTATOR 

No.  I.    Thur.sday,  March  i,  1711 

Non  fitmum  ex  fnlgorc,  sed  ex  fiuno  dare  liicem 
Cogitaf,  lit  speciosa  dehiiic  miraciihi  promaf.  —  HoR. 

I  have  observed  that  a  reader  seldom  peruses  a  book  with 
pleasure  till  he  knows  whether  the  writer  of  it  be  a  black  or 
a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric  disposition,  married  or  a 
bachelor,  with  other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that  conduce 
very  much  to  the  right  understanding  of  an  author.  To  gratify 
this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  in  a  reader,  I  design  this 
paper  and  my  next  as  prefatory -discourses  to  my  following 
writings,  and  shall  give  some  account  in  them  of  the  several 
persons  that  are  engaged  in  this  work.  As  the  chief  trouble 
of  compiling,  digesting,  and  correcting  will  fall  to  my  share, 
I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  open  the  work  with  my  own 
history. 

I  was  born  to  a  small  hereditary  estate,  which,  according  to 
the  tradition  of  the  village  where  it  lies,  was  bounded  by  the 
same  hedges  and  ditches  in  William  the  Conqueror's  time  that 
it  is  at  present,  and  has  been  delivered  down  from  father  to 
son,  whole  and  entire,  without  the  loss  or  acquisition  of  a 
single  field  or  meadow,  during  the  space  of  six  hundred  years. 
There  runs  a  story  in  the  family,  that,  when  my  mother  \\-as 
gone  with  child  of  me  about  three  months,  she  dreamed  that 
she  was  brought  to  bed  of  a  judge.  Whether  this  might 
proceed  from  a  law-suit  which  was  then  depending  in  the 
family,  or  my  father's  being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  cannot 


I02  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

determine ;  for  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think  it  presaged  any 
dignity  that  I  should  arrive  at  in  my  future  Hfe,  though  that 
was  the  interpretation  which  the  neighbourhood  put  upon  it. 
The  gravity  of  my  behaviour  at  my  very  first  appearance  in 
the  world,  and  all  the  time  that  I  sucked,  seemed  to  favour  my 
mother's  dream  ;  for,  as  she  has  often  told  me,  I  threw  away 
my  rattle  before  I  was  two  months  old,  and  would  not  make 
use  of  my  coral  till  they  had  taken  away  the  bells  from  it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  being  nothing  in  it 
remarkable,  I  shall  pass  over  it  in  silence.  I  find  that  during 
my  nonage,  I  had  the  reputation  of  a  very  sullen  youth,  but 
was  always  a  favourite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  to  say 
"  that  my  parts  were  solid,  and  would  wear  well."  I  had  not 
been  long  at  the  university  before  I  distinguished  myself  by 
a  most  profound  silence  ;  for  during  the  space  of  eight  years, 
excepting  in  the  public  exercises  of  the  college,  I  scarce  ut- 
tered the  quantity  of  a  hundred  words  ;  and  indeed  do  not 
remember  that  I  ever  spoke  three  sentences  together  in  my 
whole  life.  While  I  was  in  this  learned  body,  I  applied  my- 
self with  so  much  diligence  to  my  studies,  that  there  are  few 
very  celebrated  books,  either  in  the  learned  or  the  modern 
tongues,  which  I  am  not  acquainted  with. 

Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  resolved  to  travel  into 
foreign  countries,  and  therefore  left  the  university  with  the 
character  of  an  odd,  unaccountable  fellow,  that  had  a  great 
deal  of  learning,  if  I  would  but  show  it.  An  insatiable  thirst 
after  knowledge  carried  me  into  all  the  countries  of  Europe 
in  which  there  was  anything  new  or  strange  to  be  seen  ;  nay, 
to  such  a  degree  was  my  curiosity  raised,  that  having  read  the 
controversies  of  some  great  men  concerning  the  antiquities  of 
Egypt,  I  made  a  voyage  to  Grand  Cairo  on  purpose  to  take 
the  measure  of  a  pyramid  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  had  set  myself 
right  in  that  particular,  returned  to  my  native  countiy  with 
great  satisfaction. 

I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this  city,  where  I  am  fre- 
quently seen  in  most  public  places,  though  there  are  not  above 


THE  SPECTATOR  103 

half-a-dozen  of  my  select  friends  that  know  me ;  of  whom  my 
next  paper  shall  give  a  more  particular  account.  There  is  no 
place  of  general  resort  wherein  I  do  not  often  make  my  appear- 
ance. Sometimes  I  am  seen  thrusting  my  head  into  a  round 
of  politicians  at  Will's,  and  listening  with  great  attention  to 
the  narratives  that  are  made  in  those  little  circular  audiences. 
Sometimes  I  smoke  a  pipe  at  Child's,  and  whilst  I  seem  atten- 
tive to  nothing  but  the  Postman,  overhear  the  conversation  of 
every  table  in  the  room.  I  appear  on  Sunday  nights  at  St. 
James's  coffee-house,  and  sometimes  join  the  little  committee 
of  politics  in  the  inner  room,  as  one  who  comes  there  to  hear 
and  improve.  My  face  is  likewise  very  well  known  at  the 
Grecian,  the  Cocoa-tree,  and  in  the  theaters  both  of  Drury- 
lane  and  the  Haymarket.  I  have  been  taken  for  a  merchant 
upon  the  exchange  for  above  these  ten  years,  and  sometimes 
pass  for  a  Jew  in  the  assembly  of  stock-jobbers  at  Jonathan's. 
In  short,  wherever  I  see  a  cluster  of  people,  I  always  mix  with 
them,  though  I  never  open  my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 

Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a  Spectator  of  mankind 
than  as  one  of  the  species,  by  which  means  I  have  made  my- 
self a  speculative  statesman,  soldier,  merchant,  and  artisan, 
without  ever  meddling  with  any  practical  part  in  life.  I  am 
very  well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a  husband,  or  a  father,  and 
can  discern  the  errors  in  the  economy,  business,  and  diversions 
of  others,  better  than  those  who  are  engaged  in  them  ;  as 
standers-by  discover  blots,  which  are  apt  to  escape  those  who 
are  in  the  game.  I  never  espoused  any  party  with  violence, 
and  am  resolved  to  observe  a  strict  neutrality  between  the 
Whigs  and  Tories,  unless  I  shall  be  forced  to  declare  myself 
by  the  hostilities  of  either  side.  In  short,  I  have  acted  in  all 
the  parts  of  my  life  as  a  looker-on,  which  is  the  character  I 
intend  to  preserve  in  this  paper. 

"l  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much  of  my  histor}^  and 
character  as  to  let  him  see  I  am  not  altogether  unqualified  for 
the  business  I  have  undertaken.  As  for  other  particulars  in 
my  life  and  adventures,  I  shall  insert  them  in  following  papers 


104  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

as  I  shall  see  occasion.  In  the  mean  time,  when  I  consider 
how  much  I  have  seen,  read,  and  heard,  I  begin  to  blame  my 
own  taciturnity  ;  and  since  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination 
to  communicate  the  fulness  of  my  heart  in  speech,  I  am  re- 
solved to  do  it  in  writing,  and  to  print  myself  out,  if  possible, 
before  I  die.  I  have  been  often  told  by  my  friends  that  it  is 
pity  so  many  useful  discoveries  which  I  have  made,  should  be 
in  the  possession  of  a  silent  man.  For  this  reason,  therefore, 
I  shall  publish  a  sheetful  of  thoughts  every  morning  for  the 
benefit  of  my  contemporaries  ;  and  if  I  can  any  way  contribute 
to  the  diversion  or  improvement  of  the  country  in  which  I 
live,  I  shall  leave  it,  when  I  am  summoned  out  of  it,  with  the 
secret  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

There  are  three  very  material  points  which  I  have  not 
spoken  to  in  this  paper,  and  which,  for  several  important 
reasons,  I  must  keep  to  myself,  at  least  for  some  time :  I 
mean,  an  account  of  my  name,  my  age,  and  my  lodgings.  I 
must  confess,  I  would  gratify  my  reader  in  anything  that  is 
reasonable  ;  but,  as  for  these  three  particulars,  though  I  am 
sensible  they  might  tend  very  much  to  the  embellishment  of 
my  paper,  I  cannot  yet  come  to  a  resolution  of  communicat- 
ing them  to  the  public.  They  would  indeed  draw  me  out 
of  that  obscurity  which  I  have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  and 
expose  me  in  public  places  to  several  salutes  and  civilities, 
which  have  been  always  very  disagreeable  to  me ;  for  the 
greatest  pain  I  can  suffer  is  the  being  talked  to,  and  being 
stared  at.  It  is  for  this  reason  likewise,  that  I  keep  my  com- 
plexion and  dress  as  very  great  secrets  ;  though  it  is  not  im- 
possible but  I  may  make  discoveries  of  both  in  tlie  progress 
of  the  work  I  have  undertaken. 

After  having  been  thus  particular  upon  myself,  I  shall  in 
to-morrow's  paper  give  an  account  of  those  gentlemen  who  are 
concerned  with  me  in  this  work  ;  for,  as  I  have  before  inti- 
mated, a  plan  of  it  is  laid  and  concerted  (as  all  other  matters 
of  importance  are)  in  a  club.  However,  as  my  friends  have 
engaged  me  to  stand  in  the  front,  those  who  have  a  mind  to 


THE  SrECTATOR  105 

correspond  with  nic,  may  direct  their  letters  to  the  Spectator, 
at  Mr.  lUickley's,  in  Little  I5ritain.  I'^or  I  must  further  acquaint 
the  reader,  that  though  our  club  meets  only  on  Tuesdays  and 
Thursdays,  we  have  appointed  a  committee  to  sit  every  night, 
for  the  inspection  of  all  such  papers  as  may  contribute  to  the 
advancement  of  the  public  weal.    C    [Addison] 


THE  SPECTAT()1>L  CLUB 


No.  2.    Friday,  March  2,  1711 
-Hacc  alii  sex 


l^el plnrcs  niio  eo/ie/aina/it  ore.  — Juv. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of  Worcestershire, 
of  ancient  descent,  a  baronet,  his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 
His  great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous  country- 
dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that  shire  are 
very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger. 
He  is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  behaviour,  but 
his  singularities  proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contra- 
dictions to  the  manners  of  the  world  only  as  he  thinks  the 
world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humour  creates  him  no 
enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with  sourness  or  obstinacy ;  and 
his  being  unconfined  to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  but  the 
readier  and  more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know 
him.  When  he  is  in  town,  he  lives  in  Soho  Square.  It  is  said 
he  keeps  himself  a  bachelor  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love 
bv  a  perverse,  beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  to  him.  Be- 
fore this  disappointment,  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine 
gentleman  ;  had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester  and 
Sir  George  Etherege,  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to 
town,  and  kicked  Bully  Dawson  in  a  public  coffee-house  for 
calling  him  "youngster."  But  being  ill-used  by  the  above- 
mentioned  widow,  he  was  very  serious  for  a  year  and  a  half ; 
and  though,  his  temper  being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over 
it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself,  and  never  dressed  afterwards. 


I06  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

He  continues  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut 
that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time  of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his 
merr}^  humours,  he  tells  us,  has  been  in  and  out  twelve  times 
since  he  first  wore  it.  'Tis  said  Sir  Roger  grew  humble  in  his 
desires  after  he  had  forgot  this  cruel  beauty,  insomuch  that  it 
is  reported  he  has  frequently  offended  in  point  of  chastity  with 
beggars  and  gypsies  ;  but  this  is  looked  upon  by  his  friends 
rather  as  matter  of  raillery  than  truth.  He  is  now  in  his 
fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty ;  keeps  a  good  house 
in  both  town  and  country  ;  a  great  lover  of  mankind  ;  but  there 
is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behaviour  that  he  is  rather  beloved 
than  esteemed.  His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satis- 
fied, all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him,  and  the  young 
men  are  glad  of  his  company.  When  he  comes  into  a  house, 
he  calls  the  servants  by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way 
up-stairs  to  a  visit.  I  must  not  omit  that  Sir  Roger  is  a  justice 
of  the  quorum  ;  that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a  quarter  session 
with  great  abilities ;  and,  three  months  ago,  gained  universal 
applause  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the  Game  Act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority  among  us  is 
another  bachelor,  who  is  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple ;  a 
man  of  great  probity,  wit,  and  understanding  ;  but  he  has  chosen 
his  place  of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of  an  old 
humoursome  father,  than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  inclinations.  He 
was  placed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most 
learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle 
and  Longinus  are  much  better  understood  by  him  than  Littleton 
or  Coke.  The  father  sends  up,  every  post,  c^uestions  relating 
to  marriage-articles,  leases,  and  tenures,  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
all  which  questions  he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and 
take  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the  passions  them- 
selves, when  he  should  be  inquiring  into  the  debates  among 
men  which  arise  from  them.  He  knows  the  argument  of  each 
of  the  orations  of  Demosthenes  and  Tully,  but  not  one  case 
in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one  ever  took  him  for 
a  fool,  but  none,  except  his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has  a 


THE  SPECTATOR  107 

great  deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes  him  at  once  both  dis- 
interested and  agreeable  ;  as  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn 
from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit  for  conversation. 
His  taste  of  bo.oks  is  a  little  too  just  for  the  age  he  lives  in ; 
he  has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very  few.  His  familiarity  with 
the  customs,  manners,  actions,  and  writings  of  the  ancients 
makes  him  a  very  delicate  observer  of  what  occurs  to  him  in 
the  present  world.  He  is  an  excellent  critic,  and  the  time  of 
the  play  is  his  hour  of  business  ;  exactly  at  five  he  passes 
through  New  Inn,  crosses  through  Russell  Court,  and  takes  a 
turn  at  Will's  till  the  play  begins  ;  he  has  his  shoes  rubbed 
and  his  periwig  powdered  at  the  barber's  as  you  go  into  the 
Rose.  It  is  for  the  good  of  the  audience  when  he  is  at  a 
play,  for  the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport, 
a  merchant  of  great  eminence  in  the  city  of  London.  A  person 
of  indefatigable  industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  experience. 
His  notions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and  (as  every  rich 
man  has  usually  some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make 
no  great  figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man)  he  calls  the  sea  the 
British  Common.  He  is  acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its 
parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way 
to  extend  dominion  by  arms  :  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  by 
arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue  that  if  this  part  of  our 
trade  were  well  cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  nation ; 
and  if  another,  from  another.  I  have  heard  him  prove  that 
diligence  makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than  valour,  and  that 
sloth  has  ruined  more,  nations  than  the  sword.  He  abounds  in 
several  frugal  maxims,  among  which  the  greatest  favourite  is, 
"  A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got."  A  general  trader  of  good 
sense  is  pleasanter  company  than  a  general  scholar ;  and 
Sir  Andrew  having  a  natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  per- 
spicuity of  his  discourse  gives  the  same  pleasure  that  wit 
would  in  another  man.  He  has  made  his  fortune  himself ; 
and  says  that  England  may  be  richer  than  other  kingdoms, 
by  as  plain  methods  as  he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men  : 


lOcS  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of  him,  that  there  is 
not  a  point  in  the  compass,  but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which 
he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  sits  Captain  Sentry, 
a  gentleman  di  great  courage,  good  understanding,  but  invin- 
cible modesty.-  He  is  one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but 
are  very  awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  the  observa- 
tion of  such  as  should  take  notice  of  them.  He  was  some  years 
a  captain,  and  behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in  several 
engagements  and  at  several  sieges  ;  but  having  a  small  estate 
of  his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted 
a  way  of  life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his  merit, 
who  is  not  something  of  a  courtier  as  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have 
heard  him  often  lament  that  in  a  profession  where  merit  is 
placed  in  so  conspicuous  a  view,  impudence  should  get  the 
better  of  modesty.  When  he  had  talked  to  this  purpose,  I 
never  heard  him  make  a  sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess 
that  he  left  the  world  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A  strict 
honesty,  and  an  even  regular  behaviour,  are  in  themselves  ob- 
stacles to  him  that  must  press  through  crowds,  who  endeavour 
at  the  same  end  with  himself,  the  favour  of  a  commander.  He 
will,  however,  in  his  way  of  talk  excuse  generals  for  not  dis- 
posing according  to  men's  desert,  or  inquiring  into  it ;  for,  says 
he,  that  great  man  who  has  a  mind  to  help  me,  has  as  many 
to  break  through  to  come  at  me,  as  I  have  to  come  at  him  : 
therefore  he  will  conclude,  that  the  man  who  would  make  a 
figure,  especially  in  a  military  way,  must  get  over  all  false  mod- 
esty, and  assist  his  patron  against  the  iirq^ortunity  of  other  pre- 
tenders, by  a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindication.  He  say:; 
it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  backward  in  asserting  what  you 
ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a  military  fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking 
when  it  is  your  duty.  With  this  candour  does  the  gentleman 
speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same  fi'ankness  runs  through 
all  his  conversation.  The  military  part  of  his  life  has  furnished 
him  with  many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of  which  he  is  very 
agreeable  to  the  company  ;  for  he  is  never  overbearing,  though 


THE  SPECTATOR  1 09 

accustomed  to  command  men  in  the  utmost  degree  below  him  ; 
nor  ever  too  obsecjuious,  from  a  habit  of  obeying  men  highly 
above  him. 

But  that  our  societ)^  may  not  appear  a  set  of  humorists,  un- 
acquainted with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we 
hax'c  among  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a  gentleman  who, 
according  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  life,  but 
haviiig  ever  been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  had 
a  very  easy  fortune,  time  has  made  but  very  little  impressicjn, 
either  by  wrinkles  on  his  forehead,  or  traces  in  his  brain,  llis 
person  is  well  turned,  of  a  good  height.  He  is  very  ready  at 
that  sort  of  discourse  with  which  men  usually  entertain  women. 
He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  and  remembers  habits  as 
others  do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and 
laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every  mode,  and  can 
inform  you  from  which  of  the  French  king's  wenches  our  wives 
and  daughters  had  this  nianner  of  curling  their  hair,  that  way 
of  placing  their  hoods  ;  whose  frailty  was  covered  by  such  a 
sort  of  petticoat,  and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot  made  that 
part  of  the  dress  so  short  in  such  a  year.  In  a  word,  all  his 
conversation  and  knowledge  has  been  in  the  female  world.  As 
other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you  what  such  a  min- 
ister said  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you, 
when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced  at  court,  such  a  woman 
was  then  smitten  —  another  was  taken  with  him  at  the  head  of 
his  troop  in  the  I'ark.  In  all  these  important  relations,  he  has 
ever  about  the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance,  or  a  blow  of 
a  fan  from  some  celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present  Lord 
Such-a-one.  If  you  speak  of  a  young  commoner  that  said  a 
lively  thing  in  the  house,  he  starts  up,  "  He  has  good  blood 
in  his  veins,  Tom  Mirabell  begot  him  ;  the  rogue  cheated  me 
in  that  affair  ;  that  young  fellow's  mother  used  me  more  like 
a  dog  than  any  woman  I  ever  made  advances  to."  This  way 
of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among 
us  of  a  more  sedate  turn  ;  and  I  find  there  is  not  one  of  the 
company,  but  myself,  who   rarely  speak  at  all,  but  speaks  of 


no  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

him  as  of  that  sort  of  man,  who  is  usually  called  a  well-bred 
fine  gentleman.  To  conclude  his  character,  where  women  are 
not  concerned,  he  is  an  honest,  worthy  man, 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  him  whom  I  am  next 
to  speak  of  as  one  of  our  company,  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom  ; 
but  when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a  new  enjoyment 
of  himself.  He  is  a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man,  of 
general  learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  "exact 
good-breeding.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  weak 
constitution,  and  consequently  cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and 
business  as  preferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him  to  ; 
he  is  therefore  among  divines  what  a  chamber-counsellor  is 
among  lawyers.  The  probity  of  his  mind  and  the  integrity 
of  his  life  create  him  followers,  as  being  eloquent  or  loud  ad- 
vances others.  He  seldom  introduces  the  subject  he  speaks 
upon  ;  but  we  are  so  far  gone  in  years  that  he  observes,  when 
he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  him  fall  on  some  di- 
vine topic,  which  he  always  treats  with  much  authority,  as  one 
who  has  no  interests  in  this  world,  as  one  who  is  hastening 
to  the  object  of  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope  from  his 
decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my  ordinary  companions. 
R    [Steele] 

POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS 

No.   7.    Thursday,  March  8,  1711 

Sflt/mia,  tcrrorcs  //lagiios,  miraciila,  sagas, 

Noctnrnos  hmurcs,  portcntaqnc  Thcssahi  rides  1  —  HoR. 

Going  yesterday  to  dine  with  an  old  acquaintance,  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  find  his  whole  family  very  much  dejected.  Upon 
asking  him  the  occasion  of  it,  he  told  me  that  his  wife  had 
dreamed  a  very  strange  dream  the  night  before,  which  they 
were  afraid  portended  some  misfortune  to  themselves  or  to  their 
children.  At  her  coming  into  the  room,  I  observed  a  settled 
melancholy  in   her  countenance,  which    I    should    have  been 


THE  SPECTATOR  III 

troubled  for,  had  I  not  heard  from  whence  it  proceeded.  We 
were  no  sooner  sat  down,  but  after  having  looked  upon  me  a 
little  while,  "  My  dear,"  says  she,  turning  to  her  husband, 
"you  may  now  see  the  stranger  that  was  in  the  candle  last 
night."  Soon  afCer  this,  as  they  began  to  talk  of  family  affairs, 
a  little  boy  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table  told  her  that  he  was 
to  go  into  join-hand  on  Thursday.  "  Thursday  !  "  says  she, 
"  No,  child,  if  it  please  God,  you  shall  not  begin  upon  Childer- 
mas-day ;  tell  your  writing-master  that  Friday  will  be  soon 
enough."  I  was  reflecting  with  myself  on  the  oddness  of  her 
fancy,  and  wondering  that  anybody  would  establish  it  as  a  rule, 
to  lose  a  day  in  every  week.  In  the  midst  of  these  my  musings, 
she  desired  me  to  reach  her  a  little  salt  upon  the  point  of  my 
knife,  which  I  did  in  such  a  trepidation  and  hurry  of  obedience, 
that  I  let  it  drop  by  the  way ;  at  which  she  immediately  star- 
tled, and  said  it  fell  toward  her.  Upon  this  I  looked  very 
blank ;  and  observing  the  concern  of  the  whole  table,  began 
to  consider  myself,  with  some  confusion,  as  a  person  that  had 
brought  a  disaster  upon  the  family.  The  lady,  however,  recov- 
ering herself  after  a  little  space,  said  to  her  husband  with  a 
sigh,  "  My  dear,  misfortunes  never  come  single."  My  friend, 
I  found,  acted  but  an  under-part  at  his  table,  and  being  a 
man  of  more  good-nature  than  understanding,  thinks  himself 
obliged  to  fall  in  with  all  the  passions  and  humours  of  his 
yoke-fellow.  "Do  not  you  remember,  child,"  says  she,  "that 
the  pigeon-house  fell  the  very  afternoon  that  our  careless  wench 
spilt  the  salt  upon  the  table.?"  "Yes,"  says  he,  "my  dear, 
and  the  next  post  brought  us  an  account  of  the  battle  of 
Almanza."  The  reader  may  guess  at  the  figure  I  made,  after 
having  done  all  this  mischief.  I  dispatched  my  dinner  as  soon 
as  I  could,  with  my  usual  taciturnity  ;  W'hen,  to  my  utter  con- 
fusion, the  lady  seeing  me  quitting  my  knife  and  fork,  and 
laying  them  across  one  another  upon  my  plate,  desired  me 
that  I  would  humour  her  so  far  as  to  take  them  out  of  that 
figure,  and  place  them  side  by  side.  What  the  absurdity  was 
which  I   had  committed  I  did  not  know,  but  I  suppose  there 


112  THE  EN(]L1SH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

was  some  traditionary  superstition  in  it ;  and  therefore,  in 
obedience  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  I  disposed  of  my  knife 
and  fork  in  two  parallel  lines,  which  is  the  figure  I  shall 
always  lay  them  in  for  the  future,  though  I  do  not  know  any 
reason  for  it. 

It  is  not  difficult  for  a  man  to  see  that  a  person  has  con- 
ceived an  aversion  to  him.  For  my  own  part,  I  quickly  found, 
by  the  lady's  looks,  that  she  regarded  me  as  a  very  odd  kind 
of  fellow,  with  an  unfortunate  aspect.  Vol'  which  reason  I 
took  my  leave  immediately  after  dinner,  and  withdrew  to  my 
own  lodgings.  Upon  my  return  liome,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  evils  that  attend  these  superstitious  follies 
of  mankind  ;  how  they  subject  us  to  imaginary  afflictions,  and 
additional  sorrows,  that  do  not  properly  come  within  our  lot. 
As  if  the  natural  calamities  of  life  were  not  sufficient  for  it, 
we  turn  the  most  indifferent  circumstances  into  misfortunes, 
and  suffer  as  much  from  trifling  accidents  as  from  real  evils. 
I  have  known  the  shooting  of  a  star  spoil  a  night's  rest ;  and 
have  seen  a  man  in  love  grow  pale,  and  lose  his  appetite, 
upon  the  plucking  of  a  merry-thought.  A  screech-owl  at 
midnight  has  alarmed  a  family  more  than  a  band  of  robbers  ; 
nay,  the  voice  of  a  cricket  hath  struck  more  terror  than  the 
roaring  of  a  lion.  There  is  nothing  so  inconsiderable,  which 
may  not  appear  dreadful  to  an  imagination  tliat  is  filled  with 
omens  and  prognostics.  A  rusty  nail,  or  a  crooked  pin,  shoot 
up  into  prodigies. 

I  rei^ember  I  was  once  in  a  mixed  assembly,  that  was  full 
of  noise  and  mirth,  when  on  a  sudden  an  old  woman  unluckily 
ol)served  there  were  thirteen  of  us  in  company.  This  remark 
struck  a  panic  terror  into  several  who  were  present,  insomuch 
that  one  or  two  of  the  ladies  were  going  to  leave  the  room  ; 
but  a  friend  of  mine  taking  notice  that  one  of  our  female  com- 
panions was  big  with  child,  affirmed  there  were  fourteen  in 
the  room,  and  that,  instead  of  portending  one  of  the  company 
should  die,  it  plainly  foretold  one  of  them  should  be  born. 
I  lad    not    my   friend   found   out   this   expedient   to   break   the 


THE  SPECTATOR  113 

omen,  1  question  not  but  half  the  women  in  the  company 
would   have   fallen   sick   that   very   night. 

An  old  maid  that  is  troubled  with  the  vapours  produces  infi- 
nite disturbances  of  this  kind  among  her  friends  and  neighbours. 
I  know  a  maiden  aunt  of  a  great  family,  who  is  one  of  these 
antiquated  sybils,  that  forebodes  and  prophesies  from  one  end 
of  the  year  to  the  other.  She  is  always  seeing  apparitions,  and 
hearing  death-watches  ;  and  was  the  other  day  almost  frighted 
out  of  her  wits  by  the  great  house-dog  that  howled  in  the 
stable,  at  a  time  when  she  lay  ill  with  the  tooth-ache.  Such 
an  extravagant  cast  of  mind  engages  multitudes  of  people,  not 
only  in  impertinent  terrors,  but  in  supernumerary  duties  of 
life  ;  and  arises  from  that  fear  and  ignorance  which  are  nat- 
ural to  the  soul  of  man.  The  horror  with  which  we  entertain 
the  thoughts  of  death  (or  indeed  of  any  future  evil),  and  the 
uncertainty  of  its  approach,  fill  a  melancholy  mind  with  innu- 
merable apprehensions  and  suspicions,  and  consequently  dis- 
pose it  to  the  observation  of  such  groundless  prodigies  and 
predictions.  For  as  it  is  the  chief  concern  of  wise  men  to  re- 
trench the  evils  of  life  by  the  reasonings  of  philosophy,  it  is 
the  employment  of  fools  to  multiply  them  by  the  sentiments 
of  superstition. 

Vox  my  own  part,  I  should  be  very  much  troubled  were  I 
endowed  with  this  divining  quality,  though  it  should  inform 
me  truly  of  everything  that  can  befall  me,  I  would  not  antici- 
pate the  relish  of  any  happiness,  nor  feel  the  weight  of  an)- 
misery,  before  it  actually  arrives. 

I  know  but  one  way  of  fortifying  my  soul  against  these 
gloomy  presages  and  terrors  of  mind,  and  that  is,  by  securing 
to  myself  the  friendship  and  protection  of  that  Being,  who 
disposes  of  events,  and  governs  futurity.  He  sees,  at  one  view, 
the  whole  thread  of  my  existence,  not  only  that  part  of  it  which 
I  have  already  passed  through,  but  that  which  runs  forward 
into  all  the  depths  of  eternity.  When  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  recommend  myself  to  his  care ;  when  I  awake,  I  give  my- 
self up  to  his  direction.    Amidst  all  the  evils  that  threaten  me. 


114  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

I  will  look  up  to  him  for  help,  and  question  not  but  he  will 
either  avert  them,  or  turn  them  to  my  advantage.  Though  I 
know  neither  the  time  nor  the  manner  of  the  death  I  am  to 
die,  I  am  not  at  all  solicitous  about  it ;  because  I  am  sure  that 
he  knows  them  both,  and  that  he  will  not  fail  to  comfort  and 
support  me  under  them.    C    [Addison] 

THE  PURPOSE  OF   THE  SPECTATOR 

No.  lo.    Monday,  March  12,  171  i 

Noil  aliter  quam  qui  adverso  vix  flumijie  lemhum 

Remigiis  subigit,  si  bracchia  forte  remisif, 

Atqiie  ilium  pncceps  prono  rapit  alveus  ai/i/ii.  —  Virg. 

It  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this  great  city  in- 
cjuiring  day  by  day  after  these  my  papers,  and  receiving  my 
morning  lectures  with  a  becoming  seriousness  and  attention. 
My  publisher  tells  me  that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day  :  so  that  if  I  allow  twenty  readers 
to  every  paper,  which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computation, 
I  may  reckon  about  threescore  thousand  disciples  in  London 
and  Westminster,  who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish 
themselves  from  the  thoughtless  herd  of  their  ignorant  and 
unattentive  brethren.  Since  I  have  raised  to  myself  so  great 
an  audience,  I  shall  spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction 
agreeable,  and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reasons  I  shall 
endeavour  to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with 
morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways  find  their 
account  in  the  speculation  of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that 
their  virtue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  transient,  inter- 
mitting starts  of  thought,  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their 
memories  from  day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered  them  out  of 
that  desperate  state  of  vice  and  folly  into  which  the  age  is 
fallen.  The  mind  that  lies  fallow  for  a  single  day  sprouts  up 
in  follies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and  assiduous 
culture.     It  was  said  of  Socrates  that  he 'brought  philosophy 


THE  SPECTATOR  115 

down  from  heaven,  to  inliabit  among  men  ;  and  I  shall  be  am- 
bitious to  have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought  philosophy- 
out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in 
clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee-houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  very  particular  manner  recommend 
these  my  speculations  to  all  well  regulated  families,  that  set 
apart  an  hour  in  every  morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter ; 
and  would  earnestly  advise  them  for  their  good  to  order  this 
paper  to  be  punctually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
part  of  the  tea-equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes  that  a  well  written  book,  com- 
pared with  its  rivals  and  antagonists,  is  like  Moses's  serpent, 
that  immediately  swallowed  up  and  devoured  those  of  the  Eg}'p- 
tians.  I  shall  not  be  so  vain  as  to  think  that  where  the  Specta- 
tor appears,  the  other  public  prints  will  vanish  ;  but  shall  leave 
it  to  my  reader's  consideration,  whether,  is  it  not  much  better 
to  be  let  into  the  knowledge  of  one's  self,  than  to  hear  what 
passes  in  Muscovy  or  Poland  ;  and  to  amuse  ourselves  with 
such  writings  as  tend  to  the  wearing  out  of  ignorance,  pas- 
sion, and  prejudice,  than  such  as  naturally  conduce  to  inflame 
hatreds,  and  make  enmities  irreconcilable. 

In  the  next  place  I  would  recommend  this  paper  to  the  daily 
perusal  of  those  gentlemen  whom  I  cannot  but  consider  as  my 
good  brothers  and  allies,  I  mean  the  fraternity  of  Spectators, 
who  live  in  the  world  without  having  anything  to  do  in  it ;  and 
either  by  the  affluence  of  their  fortunes,  or  kziness  of  their 
dispositions,  have  no  other  business  with  the  rest  of  mankind, 
but  to  look  upon  them.  Under  this  class  of  men  are  compre- 
hended all  contemplative  tradesmen,  titular  physicians,  fellows 
of  the  Royal  Society,  Templars  that  are  not  given  to  be  con- 
tentious, and  statesmen  that  are  out  of  business ;  in  short, 
every  one  that  considers  the  world  as  a  theater,  and  desires 
to  form  a  right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  likewise  lay  a 
claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called  the  blanks  of  society,  as 
being  altogether  unfurnished  with  ideas,  till  the  business  and 


Ii6  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

conversation  of  the  day  has  supphed  them.  I  have  often  con- 
sidered these  poor  souls  with  an  eye  of  great  commiseration, 
when  I  have  heard  them  asking  the  first  man  they  have  met 
with,  whether  there  was  any  news  stirring,  and  by  that  means 
gathering  together  materials  for  thinking.  These  needy  per- 
sons do  not  know  what  to  talk  of,  till  about  twelve  o'clock  in 
the  morning ;  for  by  that  time  they  are  pretty  good  judges  of 
the  weather,  know  which  way  the  wind  sits,  and  whether  the 
Dutch  mail  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  first 
man  they  meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent  all  the  day  long, 
according  to  the  notions  which  they  have  imbibed  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  would  earnestly  entreat  them  not  to  stir  out  of  their 
chambers  till  they  have  read  this  paper,  and  do  promise  them 
that  I  will  daily  instill  into  them  such  sound  and  wholesome 
sentiments,  as  shall  have  a  good  effect  on  their  conversation 
for  the  ensuing  twelve  hours. 

I^ut  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will  be  more  useful 
than  to  the  female  world.  I  have  often  thought  there  has  not 
been  sufficient  pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  employments 
and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements  seem  con- 
trived for  them,  rather  as  they  are  women,  than  as  they  are 
reasonable  creatures  ;  and  are  more  adapted  to  the  sex  than  to 
the  species.  The  toilet  is  their  great  scene  of  business,  and 
the  right  adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  employment 
of  their  lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is  reckoned 
a  very  good  morning's  work ;  and  if  they  make  an  excursion 
to  a  mercer's  or  a  toy-shop,  so  great  a  fatigue  makes  them 
unfit  for  anything  else  all  the  day  after.  Their  more  serious 
occupations  are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and  their  greatest 
drudgery  the  preparation  of  jellies  and  sweetmeats.  This,  I 
say,  is  the  state  of  ordinary  women  ;  though  I  know  there  are 
multitudes  of  those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conversation, 
that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of  knowledge  and  virtue,  that 
join  all  the  beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress, 
and  inspire  a  kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well  as  love,  into 
their  male  beholders.    I  hope  to  increase  the  nimiber  of  these 


THE  SJ'RCTATOK  1 17 

by  publishing  this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeavour  to 
make  an  innocent  if  not  an  improving  entertainment,  and  by 
that  means,  at  least,  divert  the  minds  of  my  female  readers 
from  greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  would  fain  give 
some  finishing  touches  to  those  which  are  already  the  most 
beautiful  pieces  in  human  nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point 
out  all  those  imperfections  that  are  the  blemishes,  as  well  as 
those  virtues  which  are  the  embellishments,  of  the  sex.  In  the 
meanwhile,  I  hope  these  my  gentle  readers,  who  have  so 
much  time  on  their  hands,  will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day  on  this  paper,  since  they  may  do  it 
without  any  hinderance  to  business. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers  are  in  great 
pain  for  me,  lest  I  should  not  be  able  to  keep  up  the  spirit 
of  a  paper  which  I  oblige  myself  to  furnish  every  day ;  but  to 
make  them  easy  in  this  particular,  I  will  promise  them  faith- 
fully to  give  it  over  as  soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This  I  know  will 
be  matter  of  great  raillery  to  the  small  wits,  who  will  frequently 
put  me  in  mind  of  my  promise,  desire  me  to  keep  my  word, 
assure  me  that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many  other 
little  pleasantries  of  the  like  nature,  which  men  of  a  little  smart 
genius  cannot  forbear  throwing  out  against  their  best  friends, 
when  they  have  such  a  handle  given  them  of  being  witty.  But 
let  them  remember  that  I  do  hereby  enter  my  caveat  against 
this  piece  of  raillery.    C    [Addison] 

ILL-NATURE  IN  SATIRE 

No.  23.    Tuesday,  March  27,  1711 

Sicvit  atrox  Vohcens,  iiec  fell  conspicit  usquam 
Aiidoran,  nee  quo  se  aniens  imviltterc  possit.  —  Virg. 

There  is  nothing  that  more  betrays  a  base  ungenerous  spirit 
than  the  giving  of  secret  stabs  to  a  man's  reputation ;  lam- 
poons and  satires,  that  are  written  with  wit  and  spirit,  are  like 
poisoned  darts,  which  not  only  inflict  a  wound  but  make  it 


Il8  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

incurable.  For  this  reason  I  am  very  much  troubled  when  I  see 
the  talents  of  humour  and  ridicule  in  the  possession  of  an  ill- 
natured  man.  There  cannot  be  a  greater  gratification  to  a  bar- 
barous and  inhuman  wit,  than  to  stir  up  sorrow  in  the  heart  of 
a  private  person,  to  raise  uneasiness  among  near  relations,  and 
to  expose  whole  families  to  derision,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
remains  unseen  and  undiscovered.  If,  beside  the  accomplish- 
ments of  being  witty  and  ill-natured,  a  man  is  vicious  into  the 
bargain,  he  is  one  of  the  most  mischievous  creatures  that  can 
enter  into  a  civil  society.  His  satire  will  then  chiefly  fall  upon 
those  who  ought  to  be  the  most  exempt  from  it.  Virtue,  merit, 
and  everything  that  is  praiseworthy,  will  be  made  the  subject 
of  ridicule  and  buffoonery.  It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  the 
evils  which  arise  from  these  arrows  that  fly  in  the  dark  ;  and 
I  know  no  other  excuse  that  is  or  can  be  made  for  them,  than 
that  the  wounds  they  give  are  only  imaginary,  and  produce 
nothing  more  than  a  secret  shame  or  sorrow  in  the  mind  of 
the  suffering  person.  It  must  indeed  be  confessed,  that  a  lam- 
poon or  satire  do  not  carry  in  them  robbery  or  murder ;  but  at 
the  same  time  how  many  are  tlierc  that  would  not  rather  lose 
a  considerable  sum  of  money,  or  even  life  itself,  than  be  set 
up  as  a  mark  of  infamy  and  derision  ?  And  in  this  case  a  man 
should  consider  that  an  injury  is  not  to  be  measured  by  the 
notions  of  him  that  gives,  but  of  him  that  receives  it. 

Those  who  can  put  the  best  countenance  upon  the  outrages 
of  this  nature  Vk^hich  are  offered  them,  are  not  without  their 
secret  anguish.  I  have  often  observed  a  passage  in  Socrates 's 
behaviour  at  his  death,  in  a  light  wherein  none  of  the  critics 
have  considered  it.  That  excellent  man,  entertaining  his  friends, 
a  little  before  he  drank  the  bowl  of  poison,  with  a  discourse  on 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  at  his  entering  upon  it  says  that 
he  does  not  believe  any,  the  most  comic  genius,  can  censure 
him  for  talking  upon  such  a  subject  at  such  a  time.  This 
passage,  I  think,  evidently  glances  upon  Aristophanes,  who 
wrote  a  comedy  on  purpose  to  ridicule  the  discourses  of  that 
divine  philosopher.    It  has  been  observed  by  many  writers,  that 


THE  SPE  CTA  TOR  1 1 9 

Socrates  was  so  little  moved  at  this  piece  of  buffoonery,  that 
he  was  several  times  present  at  its  being  acted  upon  the  stage, 
and  never  expressed  the  least  resentment  of  it.  But  with  sub- 
mission, I  think  the  remark  I  have  here  made  shows  us,  that 
this  unworthy  treatment  made  an  impression  upon  his  mind, 
though  he  had  been  too  wise  to  discover  it. 

When  Julius  Caesar  was  lampooned  by  Catullus,  he  invited 
him  to  a  supper,  and  treated  him  with  such  a  generous  civil- 
ity, that  he  made  the  poet  his  friend  ever  after.  Cardinal 
Mazarine  gave  the  same  kind  of  treatment  to  the  learned 
Quillet,  who  had  reflected  upon  his  eminence  in  a  famous 
Latin  poem.  The  cardinal  sent  for  him,  and,  after  some  kind 
expostulations  upon  what  he  had  written,  assured  him  of  his 
esteem,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  promise  of  the  next  good 
abbey  that  should  fall,  which  he  accordingly  conferred  upon 
him  in  a  few  months  after.  This  had  so  good  an  effect  upon 
the  author,  that  he  dedicated  the  second  edition  of  his  book  to 
the  cardinal,  after  having  expunged  the  passages  which  had 
given  him  offense. 

Sextus  Ouintus  was  not  of  so  generous  and  forgiving  a 
temper.  Upon  his  being  made  pope,  the  statue  of  Pasquin 
was  one  night  dressed  in  a  very  dirty  shirt,  with  an  excuse 
written  under  it,  that  he  was  forced  to  wear  foul  linen,  be- 
cause his  laundress  was  made  a  princess.  This  was  a  reflec- 
tion upon  the  pope's  sister,  who  before  the  promotion  of  her 
brother,  was  in  those  mean  circumstances  that  Pasquin  repre- 
sented her.  As  this  pasquinade  made  a  great  noise  in  Rome, 
the  pope  offered  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to  any  person 
that  should  discover  the  author  of  it.  The  author,  relying 
upon  his  holiness's  generosity,  as  also  on  some  private  over- 
tures which  he  had  received  from  him,  made  the  discovery 
himself ;  upon  which  the  pope  gave  him  the  reward  he  had 
promised,  but  at  the  same  time  to  disable  the  satirist  for  the 
future,  ordered  his  tongue  to  be  cut  out,  and  both  his  hands 
to  be  chopped  off.  Aretine  is  too  trite  an  instance.  Every  one 
knows  that  all  the  kings  in  Europe  were  his  tributaries.    Nay, 


120  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

there  is  a  letter  of  his  extant,  in  which  he  makes  his  boasts 
that  he  laid  the  Sophi  of  Persia  under  contribution. 

Though,  in  the  various  examples  which  I  have  here  drawn 
together,  these  several  great  men  behaved  themselves  very 
differently  toward  the  wits  of  the  age  who  had  reproached 
them  ;  they  all  of  them  plainly  showed  that  they  were  very 
sensible  of  their  reproaches,  and  consequently  that  they  re- 
ceived them  as  very  great  injuries.  For  my  own  part,  I 
would  never  trust  a  man  that  I  thought  was  capable  of  giving 
these  secret  wounds,  and  cannot  but  think  that  he  would  hurt 
the  person  whose  reputation  he  thus  assaults,  in  his  body  or 
in  his  fortune,  could  he  do  it  with  the  same  security.  There 
is,  indeed,  something  very  barbarous  and  inhuman  in  the 
ordinary  scribblers  of  lampoons.  An  innocent  young  lady 
shall  be  exposed  for  an  unhappy  feature  ;  a  father  of  a  family 
turned  to  ridicule  for  some  domestic  calamity  ;  a  wife  be  made 
uneasy  all  her  life  for  a  misinterpreted  word  or  action  ;  nay, 
a  good,  a  temperate,  and  a  just  man  shall  be  put  out  of  coun- 
tenance by  the  representation  of  those  qualities  that  should 
do  him  honour.  So  pernicious  a  thing  is  wit,  when  it  is  not 
tempered  with  virtue  and  humanity. 

I  have  indeed  heard  of  heedless,  inconsiderate  writers,  that 
without  any  malice  have  sacrificed  the  reputation  of  their 
friends  and  acquaintance  to  a  certain  levity  of  temper,  and 
a  silly  ambition  of  distinguishing  themselves  by  a  spirit  of 
raillery  and  satire  :  as  if  it  were  not  infinitely  more  honourable 
to  be  a  good-natured  man  than  a  wit.  Where  there  is  this 
little  petulant  humour  in  an  author,  he  is  often  very  mischievous 
without  designing  to  be  so.  For  which  reason,  I  always  lay  it 
down  as  a  rule,  that  an  indiscreet  man  is  more  hurtful  than 
an  ill-natured  one ;  for,  as  the  latter  will  only  attack  his 
enemies,  and  those  he  wishes  ill  to,  the  other  injures  indiffer- 
ently both  friends  and  foes.  I  cannot  forbear  on  this  occasion 
transcribing  a  fable  out  of  Sir  Roger  1' Estrange,  which  acci- 
dentally lies  before  me.  "'  A  company  of  waggish  boys  were 
watching  of  frogs  at  the  side  of  a  pond,  and  still  as  any  of  'em 


THE  SPECTATOR  1 21 

put  up  their  heads,  they  'd  be  pelting  them  down  again  with 
stones.  '  Children,'  says  one  of  the  frogs,  'you  never  consider, 
that  though  this  may  be  play  to  you,  'tis  death  to  us.'  " 

As  this  week  is  in  a  manner  set  apart  and  dedicated  to 
serious  thoughts,  I  shall  indulge  myself  in  such  speculations 
as  may  not  be  altogether  unsuitable  to  the  season  ;  and  in  the 
meantime,  as  the  settling  in  ourselves  a  charitable  frame  of 
mind  is  a  work  very  proper  for  the  time,  I  have  in  this  paper 
endeavoured  to  expose  that  particular  breach  of  charity  which 
has  been  generally  overlooked  by  divines,  because  they  are  but 
few  who  can  be  guilty  of  it,    C  [Addison] 


MEDITATIONS   IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

No.  26.    Friday,  March  30,   1711 

Pallida  mors  aequo  piilsat  pcdc  pa iipciuni  tabcrnas 

Regumqne  turres.    O  beate  Scsli, 
Vilae  s/nnnia  brevis  spcin  nos  vetat  iiicoharc  loiigam. 

Ja//i  tc  prcDui  /lox,  fabiilacqiic  ma/ics, 
El  do)niis  cxilis  Plnloiiia .  —  HoR. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  I  very  often  w-alk  by 
myself  in  Westminster  Abbey  :  where  the  gloominess  of  the 
place,  and  the  use  to  which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity 
of  the  building,  and  the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it, 
are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather 
thoughtfulncss,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed 
a  whole  afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and  the 
church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tombstones  and  inscriptions 
that  I  met  with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most 
of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  person,  but  that 
he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and  died  upon  another  ;  the  whole 
history  of  his  life  being  comprehended  in  those  two  circum- 
stances that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  look 
upon  these  registers  of  existence,  whether  of  brass  or  marble, 
as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  the  departed  persons ;    who  had  left 


122  THE   ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  IvSSAY 

no  other  memorial  of  them,  but  that  they  were  born,  and  that 
they  died.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  men- 
tioned in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding 
names  given  them  for  no  other  reason  but  that  they  may  be 
killed,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on 
the  head. 

TXavKov  re  Me'Sovra  re  ©epcrt Ao;^di/  re.  —  HOM. 
Glaucumque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque.  —  VniG. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  holy  writ 
by  "the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  immediately  closed  up 
and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained  myself  with 
the  digging  of  a  grave  ;  and  saw  in  every  shovel-full  of  it  that 
was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed 
with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth  that  some  time  or  other 
had  a  place  in  the  composition  of  a  human  body.  LTpon  this 
I  began  to  consider  with  myself  what  innumerable  multitudes 
of  people  lay  confused  together  under  the  pavement  of  that 
ancient  cathedral  ;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies, 
priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled 
among  one  another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same  com- 
mon mass  ;  how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with  old  age, 
weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished  in  the  same 
promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  magazine  of  mortality, 
as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it  more  particularly  by 
the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several  of  the  monuments 
which  are  raised  in  every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some 
of  them  were  covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if 
it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  with 
them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises  which  his  friends  have 
bestowed  upon  him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest 
that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person  departed  in 
Greek  or  Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  understood  once 
in  a  twelvemonth.    In  the  poetical  quarter,  I  found  there  were 


THE  SPECTATOR  123 

poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  monuments  which  had  no 
poets.  I  observed,  indeed,  that  the  present  war  has  filled  the 
church  with  many  of  these  uninhabited  monuments,  which 
had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were 
perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom 
of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with  several  modern 
epitaphs,  which  are  written  with  great  elegance  of  expression 
and  justness  of  thought,  and  therefore  do  honour  to  the  living 
as  well  as  to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  to  conceive 
an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or  politeness  of  a  nation  from  the 
turn  of  their  public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  they  should 
be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  men  of  learning  and  genius 
before  they  are  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's 
monument  has  ver}'  often  given  me  great  offense.  Instead  of 
the  brave,  rough  English  admiral,  which  was  the  distinguish- 
ing character  of  that  plain,  gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on 
his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig, 
and  reposing  himself  upon  velvet  cushions,  under  a  canopy  of 
state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to  the  monument ;  for 
instead  of  celebrating  the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had 
performed  in  the  service  of  his  country,  it  acquaints  us  only 
with  the  manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  reap  any  honour.  The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to 
despise  for  want  of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater  taste  of 
antiquity  and  politeness  in  their  buildings  and  works  of  this 
nature  than  what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  country. 
The  monuments  of  their  admirals,  which  have  been  erected 
at  the  public  expense,  represent  them  like  themselves,  and 
are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns  and  naval  ornaments,  with 
beautiful  festoons  of  sea-weed,  shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the  repository  of 
our  English  kings  for  the  contemplation  of  another  day,  when 
I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amusement. 
I  know  that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise 
dark   and    dismal   thoughts   in    timorous    minds    and    gloomy 


124  tup:  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

imaginations ;  but  for  my  own  part,  tliough  I  am  always 
serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melancholy ;  and  can 
therefore  take  a  view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
scenes  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  de- 
lightful ones.  J^y  this  means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those 
objects  which  others  consider  with  terror.  When  I  look  upon 
the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  within 
me  ;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordi- 
nate desire  goes  out ;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of  parents 
upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  compassion  ;  when 
I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I  consider  the 
vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow. 
W'hen  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when 
I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men 
that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I 
reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little  competi- 
tions, factions,  and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the 
several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and 
some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when 
we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  appear- 
ance together.    C    [Audison] 


COFFEE  HOUSE  COMPANY 

No.  49.    Thursday,  April  26,  i  7 1 1 
—  ]-l()ini/ic//i  pagitta  nostra  sapit.  —  Mart. 


It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  who  is  not  turned  for  mirthful 
meetings  of  men,  or  assemblies  of  the  fair  sex,  to  delight  in 
that  sort  of  conversation  which  we  find  in  coffee-houses.  Here 
a  man  of  my  temper  is  in  his  element ;  for  if  he  cannot  talk, 
he  can  still  be  more  agreeable  to  his  company,  as  well  as 
pleased  in  himself,  in  being  only  a  hearer.  It  is  a  secret 
known  but  to  few,  yet  of  no  small  use  in  the  conduct  of  life, 
that  when  you  fall  into  a  man's  conversation,  the  first  thing 


THE  SrECTATOJ^  125 

you  should  consider  is,  whether  he  has  a  greater  incHnation  to 
hear  you,  or  that  you  should  hear  him.  Tlie  latter  is  tlie  more 
general  desire,  and  I  know  very  able  flatterers  that  never 
speak  a  word  in  praise  of  the  persons  from  whom  they  obtain 
daily  favours,  but  still  practice  a  skillful  attention  to  whatever 
is  uttered  by  those  with  whom  they  converse.  We  are  very 
curious  to  observe  the  behaviour  of  great  men  and  their 
clients ;  but  the  same  passions  and  interests  move  men  in 
lower  spheres  ;  and  I  (that  have  nothing  else  to  do  but  make 
observations)  see  in  every  parish,  street,  lane,  and  alley  of 
this  populous  city,  a  little  potentate  that  has  his  court  and  his 
flatterers,  who  lay  snares  for  his  affection  and  favour  by  the 
same  arts  that  are  practiced  upon  men  in  higher  stations. 

In  the  place  I  mcjst  usually  frequent,  men  differ  rallicr  in 
the  time  of  day  in  which  they  make  a  figure,  than  in  any  real 
greatness  above  one  another.  I,  who  am  at  the  coffee-house 
at  six  in  a  morning,  know  that  my  friend  Beaver,  the  haber- 
dasher, has  a  levee  of  more  undissembled  friends  and  admirers 
than  most  of  the  courtiers  or  generals  of  Great  Britain.  Every 
man  about  him  has,  perhaps,  a  newspaper  in  his  hand  ;  but 
none  can  pretend  to  guess  what  step  will  be  taken  in  any  one 
court  of  Europe,  till  Mr.  Beaver  has  thrown  down  his  pipe, 
and  declares  what  measures  the  allies  must  enter  into  upon 
this  new  posture  of  affairs.  Our  coffee-house  is  near  one  of 
the  inns  of  court,  and  Beaver  has  the  audience  and  admira- 
tion of  his  neighbours  from  six  till  within  a  quarter  of  eight, 
at  which  time  he  is  interrupted  by  the  students  of  the  house  ; 
some  of  whom  are  ready  dressed  for  Westminster  at  eight  in 
a  morning,  with  faces  as  busy  as  if  they  were  retained  in  every 
cause  there  ;  and  others  come  in  their  nightgowns  to  saunter 
away  their  time,  as  if  they  never  designed  to  go  thither.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  meet,  in  any  of  my  walks,  objects  which  move 
both  my  spleen  and  laughter  so  effectually  as  those  young  fel- 
lows at  the  Grecian,  Squire's,  Searle's,  and  all  other  coffee- 
houses adjacent  to  the  law,  who  rise  early  for  no  other  purpose 
but  to  publish  their  laziness.    One  would  think   these  young 


126  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

virtuosos  take  a  gay  cap  and  slippers,  with  a  scarf  and  parti- 
coloured gown,  to  be  ensigns  of  dignity  ;  for  the  vain  things 
approach  each  other  with  an  air,  which  shows  they  regard  one 
another  for  their  vestments.  I  have  observed  that  the  superi- 
ority among  these  proceeds  from  an  opinion  of  gallantry  and 
fashion.  The  gentleman  in  the  strawberry  sash,  who  presides 
so  much  over  the  rest,  has,  it  seems,  subscribed  to  every  opera 
this  last  winter,  and  is  supposed  to  receive  favours  from  one  of 
the  actresses. 

When  the  day  grows  too  busy  for  these  gentlemen  to  enjoy 
any  longer  the  pleasures  of  their  dishabille  with  any  manner  of 
confidence,  they  give  place  to  men  who  have  business  or  good 
sense  in  their  faces,  and  come  to  the  coffee-house  either  to 
transact  affairs,  or  enjoy  conversation.  The  persons  to  whose 
behaviour  and  discourse  I  have  most  regard,  are  such  as  are 
between  these  two  sorts  of  men  ;  such  as  have  not  spirits  too 
active  to  be  happy  and  well  pleased  in  a  private  condition,  nor 
complexions  too  warm  to  make  them  neglect  the  duties  and 
relations  of  life.  Of  these  sort  of  men  consist  the  worthier, 
part  of  mankind ;  of  these  are  all  good  fathers,  generous 
brothers,  sincere  friends,  and  faithful  subjects.  Their  enter- 
tainments are  derived  rather  from  reason  than  imagination  : 
which  is  the  cause  that  there  is  no  impatience  or  instability  in 
their  speech  or  action.  You  see  in  their  countenances  they 
are  at  home,  and  in  quiet  possession  of  the  present  instant 
as  it  passes,  without  desiring  to  quicken  it  by  gratifying  any 
passion,  or  prosecuting  any  new  design.  These  are  the  men 
formed  for  society,  and  those  little  communities  which  we 
express  by  the  word  neighbourhoods. 

The  coffee-house  is  the  place  of  rendezvous  to  all  that  live 
near  it,  who  are  thus  turned  to  relish  calm  and  ordinary  life. 
Eubulus  presides  over  the  middle  hours  of  the  day,  when  this 
assembly  of  men  meet  together.  He  enjoys  a  great  fortune 
handsomely,  v^ithout  launching  into  expense  ;  and  exerts  many 
noble  and  useful  qualities,  without  appearing  in  any  public 
employment.     His  wisdom  and  knowledge  are  serviceable  to 


THE  SPECTATOR  127 

all  that  think  fit  to  make  use  of  them  ;  and  he  does  the  office 
of  a  counsel,  a  judge,  an  executor,  and  a  friend,  to  all  his 
acquaintance,  not  only  without  the  profits  which  attend  such 
offices,  but  also  without  the  deference  and  homage  which  are 
usually  paid  to  them.  The  giving  of  thanks  is  displeasing  to 
him.  The  greatest  gratitude  you  can  show  him  is  to  let  him 
see  that  you  are  the  better  man  for  his  services  ;  and  that  you 
are  as  ready  to  oblige  others,  as  he  is  to  oblige  you. 

In  the  private  exigencies  of  his  friends,  he  lends  at  legal 
value  considerable  sums  which  he  might  highly  increase  by 
rolling  in  the  public  stocks.  He  does  not  consider  in  whose 
hands  his  money  will  improve  most,  but  where  it  will  do 
most  good. 

Eubulus  has  so  great  an  authority  in  his  little  diurnal  audi- 
ence, that  when  he  shakes  his  head  at  any  piece  of  public 
news,  they  all  of  them  appear  dejected ;  and  on  the  contrary, 
go  home  to  their  dinners  with  a  good  stomach  and  cheerful 
aspect  when  Eubulus  seems  to  intimate  that  things  go  well. 
Nay,  their  veneration  toward  him  is  so  great,  that  when  they 
are  in  other  company  they  speak  and  act  after  him  ;  are  wise 
in  his  sentences  and  are  no  sooner  sat  down  at  their  own 
tables,  but  they  hope  or  fear,  rejoice  or  despond,  as  they  saw 
him  do  at  the  coffee-house.  In  a  word,  every  man  is  Eubulus 
as  soon  as  his  back  is  turned. 

Having  here  given  an  account  of  the  several  reigns  that 
succeed  each  other  from  day-break  till  dinner-time,  I  shall 
mention  the  monarchs  of  the  afternoon  on  another  occasion, 
and  shut  up  the  whole  series  of  them  with  the  history  of  Tom 
the  Tyrant ;  who,  as  the  first  minister  of  the  coffee-house, 
takes  the  government  upon  him  between  the  hours  of  eleven 
and  twelve  at  night,  and  gives  his  orders  in  the  most  -arbitrary 
manner  to  the  servants  below  him,  as  to  the  disposition  of 
liquors,  coal,  and  cinders.    R    [Steele] 


128  VWK   ENGLISH    FAMILIAR   ESSAY 

THE  JOURNAL  OF  THE  INDIAN   KINGS 

No.  50.    Friday,  April  27,  171  i 

Niuiqnam  alind  natiira,  aliiid  sapioitia  dicit.  —  Juv. 

When  the  four  Indian  kings  were  in  this  country  about  a 
twelvemonth  ago,  I  often  mixed  with  the  rabble,  and  followed 
them  a  whole  day  together,  being  wonderfully  struck  with  the 
sight  of  everything  that  is  new  or  uncommon.  I  have  since 
their  departure  employed  a  friend  to  make  many  inquiries  of 
their  landlord  the  upholsterer,  relating  to  their  manners  and 
conversation,  as  also  concerning  the  remarks  which  they  made 
in  this  country ;  for  next  to  the  forming  a  right  notion  of 
such  strangers,  I  should  be  desirous  of  learning  what  ideas 
they  liave  conceived  of  us. 

The  upholsterer  finding  my  friend  very  inquisitive  about 
these  his  lodgers,  brought  him  some  time  since  a  little  bundle 
of  papers,  whicli  he  assured  him  were  written  by  King  Sa  Ga 
Yean  Qua  Rash  Tow,  and,  as  he  supposes,  left  behind  by 
some  mistake.  These  papers  are  now  translated,  and  contain 
abundance  of  very  odd  observations,  which  I  find  this  little 
fraternity  of  kings  made  during  their  stay  in  the  isle  of  Great 
Britain.  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  a  short  specimen  of 
them  in  this  paper,  and  may  perhaps  communicate  more  to 
him  hereafter.  In  the  article  of  London  are  the  following  words, 
which  without  doubt  are  meant  of  the  church  of  St.  Paul  : 

On  the  most  rising  part  of  tlie  town  there  stands  a  luigc  house,  Isig 
enough  to  contain  the  whole  nation  of  which  I  am  king.  Our  good  brother 
E  Tow  O  Koam,  King  of  the  Rivers,  is  of  opinion  it  was  made  by  the  hands 
of  that  great  God  to  whom  it  is  consecrated.  The  kings  of  Granajah  and 
of  the  vSix  Nations  believe  that  it  was  created  with  the  earth,  and  produced 
on  the  same  day  with  the  sun  and  moon.  But  for  my  own  part,  by  the 
best  information  that  I  could  get  of  this  matter,  I  am  apt  to  think  that  this 
prodigious  pile  was  fashioned  into  the  shape  it  now  bears  by  several  tools 
and  instruments  of  which  they  have  a  wonderful  variety  in  this  country.  It 
was  probably  at  first  a  huge  misshapen  rock  that  grew  upon  the  top  of  the 
hill,  which  the  natives  of  the  country  (after  having  cut  it  into  a  kind  of 


THE  SPECTATOR  129 

regular  figure)  bored  and  hollowed  with  incredible  pains  and  industry,  till 
they  had  wrought  in  it  all  those  beautiful  vaults  and  caverns  into  which 
it  is  divided  at  this  day.  As  soon  as  this  rock  was  thus  curiously  scooped 
to  their  liking,  a  prodigious  number  of  hands  must  have  been  employed 
in  chipping  the  outside  of  it,  which  is  now  as  smooth  as  the  surface  of  a 
pebble ;  and  is  in  several  places  hewn  out  into  pillars  that  stand  like  the 
trunks  of  so  many  trees  bound  about  the  top  with  garlands  of  leaves.  It 
is  probable  that  when  this  great  w-ork  was  begun,  which  must  have  been 
many  hundred  years  ago,  there  was  some  religion  among  this  people ;  for 
tiiey  give  it  the  name  of  a  temple,  and  have  a  tradition  that  it  was  designed 
for  men  to  pay  their  devotions  in.  And  indeed  there  are  several  reasons 
which  make  us  think  that  the  natives  of  this  country  had  formerly  among 
them  some  sort  of  worship,  for  they  set  apart  every  seventh  day  as  sacred ; 
but  upon  my  going  into  one  of  these  holy  houses  on  that  day,  I  could  not 
observe  any  circumstance  of  devotion  in  their  behaviour.  There  was  in- 
deed a  man  in  black,  who  was  mounted  above  the  rest,  and  seemed  to 
utter  something  with  a  great  deal  of  vehemence :  but  as  for  those  under- 
neath him,  instead  of  paying  their  worship  to  the  deity  of  the  place, 
they  were  most  of  them  bowing  and  curtseying  to  one  another,  and  a 
considerable  number  of  them  fast  asleep. 

The  queen  of  the  country  appointed  two  men  to  attend  us,  that  had 
enough  of  our  language  to  make  themselves  understood  in  some  few  par- 
ticulars. But  we  soon  perceived  that  these  two  were  great  enemies  to  one 
another,  and  did  not  always  agree  in  the  same  story.  We  could  make  shift 
to  gather  out  of  one  of  them,  that  this  island  was  very  much  infested  with 
a  monstrous  kind  of  animals,  in  the  shape  of  men,  called  whigs ;  and  he 
often  told  us  that  he  hoped  we  should  meet  with  none  of  them  in  our  wa}-, 
for  that  if  we  did,  they  would  be  apt  to  knock  us  down  for  being  kings. 

Our  other  interpreter  used  to  talk  very  much  of  a  kind  of  animal  called 
a  tory,*that  was  as  great  a  monster  as  the  whig,  and  would  treat  us  as  ill 
for  being  foreigners.  These  tw'o  creatures,  it  seems,  are  born  with  a  secret 
antipathy  to  one  another,  and  engage  when  they  meet  as  naturally  as  the 
elephant  and  the  rhinoceros.  But  as  we  saw  none  of  either  of  these  species, 
we  are  apt  to  think  that  our  guides  deceived  us  with  misrepresentations  and 
fictions,  and  amused  us  with  an  account  of  such  monsters  as  are  not  really 
in  their  country. 

These  particulars  we  made  a  shift  to  pick  out  from  the  discourse  of  our 
interpreters,  which  we  put  together  as  well  as  we  could,  being  able  to 
understand  but  here  and  there  a  word  of  what  they  said,  and  afterward 
making  up  the  meaning  of  it  among  ourselves.  The  men  of  the  country 
are  very  cunning  and  ingenious  in  handicraft  works,  but  withal  so  very 
idle,  that  we  often  saw  young,  lusty,  raw-boned  fellows  carried  up  and 
down  the  streets  in  little  covered  rooms,  by  a  couple  of  porters  who  are 


T30  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

hired  for  that  service.  Their  dress  is  likewise  very  barbarous,  for  they 
ahiiost  strangle  themselves  about  the  neck,  and  bind  their  bodies  with 
many  ligatures,  that  we  are  apt  to  think  are  the  occasion  of  several  distem- 
pers among  them  which  our  country  is  entirely  free  from.  Instead  of  those 
beautiful  feathers  with  which  we  adorn  our  heads,  they  often  buy  up  a 
monstrous  bush  of  hair,  which  covers  their  heads  and  falls  down  in  a  large 
fleece  below  the  middle  of  their  backs,  with  which  they  walk  up  and  down 
the  streets,  and  are  as  proud  of  it  as  if  it  was  of  their  own  growth. 

We  were  invited  to  one  of  their  public  diversions,  where  we  hoped  to 
have  seen  the  great  men  of  their  country  running  down  a  stag,  or  pitching 
a  bar,  that  we  might  have  discovered  who  were  the  persons  of  the  greatest 
abilities  among  them ;  but  instead  of  that,  they  conveyed  us  into  a  huge 
room  lighted  up  with  abundance  of  candles,  where  this  lazy  people  sat  still 
above  three  hours  to  see  several  feats  of  ingenuity  performed  by  others, 
who  it  seems  were  paid  for  it. 

As  for  the  women  of  the  country,  not  being  able  to  talk  with  them,  we 
could  only  make  our  remarks  upon  them  at  a  distance.  They  let  the  hair 
of  their  heads  grow  to  a  great  length  ;  but  as  the  men  make  a  great  show 
with  heads  of  hair  that  are  none  of  their  own,  the  women,  who  they  say 
have  very  fine  heads  of  hair,  tie  it  up  in  a  knot,  and  cover  it  from  being 
seen.  The  women  look  like  angels,  and  would  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
sun,  were  it  not  for  little  black  spots  that  are  apt  to  break  out  in  their 
faces,  and  sometimes  rise  in  very  odd  figures.  I  have  observed  that  those 
little  blemishes  wear  off  very  soon ;  but  when  they  disappear  in  one  part 
of  the  face,  they  are  very  apt  to  break  out  in  another,  insomuch  that  I 
have  seen  a  spot  upon  the  forehead  in  the  afternoon,  which  was  upon 
the  chin  in  the  morning. 

The  author  then  proceeds  to  show  the  absurdity  of  breeches 
and  petticoats,  with  many  other  curious  observations  which  I 
shall  reserve  for  another  occasion.  I  cannot,  however,  con- 
clude this  paper  without  taking  notice  that  amidst  these  wild 
remarks  there  now  and  then  appears  something  very  reason- 
able. I  cannot  likewise  forbear  observing  that  we  are  all 
guilty  in  some  measure  of  the  same  narrow  way  of  thinking 
which  we  meet  with  in  this  abstract  of  the  Indian  journal, 
when  we  fancy  the  customs,  dresses,  and  manners  of  other 
countries  are  ridiculous  and  extravagant,  if  they  do  not  resem- 
ble those  of  our  own,    C    [Auuison] 


THE  SPECTATOR  1 31 

THE  EDUCATION   OE  GIRLS 

No.  66.    Wednesday,  May  16,  1711 

Mot  lis  doceri  gaudd  loiiicos 
Matuni  virgo,  et  Jingitiir  artibiis 
Jatn  nunc  et  inccstos  amorcs 

De  te?iero  mediatur  ungiii.  —  Hor. 

The  two  following  letters  are  upon  a  subject  of  very  great 
importance,  though  expressed  without  any  air  of  gravity. 

To  THE  Spectator 
Sir, 

I  take  the  freedom  of  asking  your  advice  in  behalf  of  a  young  country 
kinswoman  of  mine  who  is  lately  come  to  town,  and  under  my  care  for 
her  education.  She  is  very  pretty,  but  you  can't  imagine  how  unformed 
a  creature  it  is.  She  comes  to  my  hands  just  as  nature  left  her,  half  fin- 
ished, and  without  &ny  acquired  improvements.  When  I  look  on  her  I 
often  think  of  the  Belle  Sauvage  mentioned  in  one  of  your  papers.  Dear 
Mr.  Spectator,  help  me  to  make  her  comprehend  the  visible  graces  of 
speech,  and  the  dumb  eloquence  of  motion  ;  for  she  is  at  present  a  perfect 
stranger  to  both.  She  knows  no  way  to  express  herself  but  by  her  tongue, 
and  that  always  to  signify  her  meaning.  Her  eyes  serve  her  yet  only  to 
see  with,  and  she  is  utterly  a  foreigner  to  the  language  of  looks  and  glances. 
In  this  I  fancy  you  could  help  her  better  than  anybody.  I  have  bestowed 
two  months  in  teaching  her  to  sigh  when  she  is  not  concerned,  and  to 
smile  when  she  is  not  pleased,  and  am  ashamed  to  own  she  makes  little  or 
no  improvement.  Then  she  is  no  more  able  now  to  walk,  than  she  was  to 
go  at  a  year  old.  By  walking,  you  will  easily  know  I  mean  that  regular 
but  easy  motion  which  gives  our  persons  so  irresistible  a  grace,  as  if  we 
moved  to  music,  and  is  a  kind  of  disengaged  figure,  or,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
recitative  dancing.  But  the  want  of  this  I  cannot  blame  in  her,  for  I  find 
she  has  no  ear,  and  means  nothing  by  walking  but  to  change  her  place. 
I  could  pardon  too  her  blushing,  if  she  knew  how  to  carry  herself  in  it, 
and  if  it  did  not  manifestly  injure  her  complexion. 

They  tell  me  you  are  a  person  who  have  seen  the  world,  and  are  a 
judge  of  fine  breeding;  which  makes  me  ambitious  of  some  instructions 
from  you  for  her  improvement :  which  when  you  have  favored  me  with,  I 
shall  farther  advise  with  you  about  the  disposal  of  this  fair  forester  in 
marriage  :  for  I  will  make  it  no  secret  to  you,  that  her  person  and  educa- 
tion are  to  be  her  fortune.  j  ^^^^   gjj. 

Your  very  humble  servant, 

Celimene. 


132  THK   ENCiLISlI    I'AMILIAR   B:SSAY 

Sir, 

Being  employed  by  Cclimene  to  make  up  and  send  to  you  her  letter,  I 
make  bold  to  recommend  the  case  therein  mentioned  to  your  consideration, 
because  she  and  I  happen  to  differ  a  little  in  our  notions.  I,  who  am  a 
rough  man,  am  afraid  the  young  girl  is  in  a  fair  way  to  be  spoiled ;  there- 
fore, pray,  Mr.  Spectator,  let  us  have  your  opinion  of  this  fine  thing  called 
fine  breeding ;  for  I  am  afraid  it  differs  too  much  from  that  plain  thing 
called  good  breeding. 

Your  most  humble  servant. 

The  general  mistake  among  us  in  the  educating  our  chil- 
dren is,  that  in  our  daughters  we  take  care  of  their  persons 
and  neglect  their  minds  ;  in  our  sons  we  are  so  intent  upon 
adorning  their  minds,  that  we  wholly  neglect  their  bodies.  It 
is  from  this  that  you  shall  see  a  young  lady  celebrated  and 
admired  in  all  the  assemblies  about  town,  when  her  elder 
brother  is  afraid  to  come  into  a  room.  From  this  ill  manage- 
ment it  arises,  that  we  frequently  observe  a  man's  life  is  half 
spent,  before  he  is  taken  notice  of,  and  a  woman  in  the  prime 
of  her  years  is  out  of  fashion  and  neglected.  The  boy  I  shall 
consider  upon  some  other  occasion,  and  at  present  stick  to 
the  girl  :  and  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  this,  because  I  have 
several  letters  which  complain  to  me  that  my  female  readers 
have  not  understood  me  for  some  days  last  past,  and  take 
themselves  to  be  unconcerned  in  the  present  turn  of  my  writ- 
ings. When  a  girl  is  safely  brought  from  her  nurse,  before 
she  is  capable  of  forming  one  simple  notion  of  anything  in 
life,  she  is  delivered  to  the  hands  of  her  dancing-master  ;  and 
with  a  collar  round  her  neck,  the  pretty,  wild  thing  is  taught 
a  fantastical  gravity  of  behaviour,  and  forced  to  a  particular 
way  of  holding  her  head,  heaving  her  breast,  and  moving  with 
her  whole  body ;  and  all  this  under  pain  of  never  having  a 
husband,  if  she  steps,  looks,  or  moves  awry.  This  gives  the 
young  lady  wonderful  workings  of  imagination,  what  is  to  pass 
between  her  and  this  husband,  that  she  is  every  moment  told 
of,  and  for  whom  she  seems  to  be  educated.  Thus  her  fancy 
is  engaged  to  turn  all  her  endeavours  to  the  ornament  of  her 
person,  as  what  must  determine  her  good  and  ill  in  this  life: 


THE  SPECTATOR  133 

and  she  naturally  thinks,  if  she  is  tall  enough,  she  is  wise 
enough  for  anything  for  which  her  education  makes  her  think 
she  is  designed.  To  make  her  an  agreeable  person  is  the 
main  purpose  of  her  parents  ;  to  that  is  all  their  cost,  to  that 
all  their  care  directed  ;  and  from  this  general  folly  of  parents 
we  owe  our  present  numerous  race  of  coquettes.  These  reflec- 
tions puzzle  me,  w^hen  I  think  of  giving  my  advice  on  the 
subject  of  managing  the  wild  thing  mentioned  in  the  letter  of 
my  correspondent.  But  sure  there  is  a  middle  way  to  be  fol- 
lowed ;  the  management  of  a  young  lady's  person  is  not  to  be 
overlooked,  but  the  erudition  of  her  mind  is  much  more  to 
be  regarded.  According  as  this  is  managed,  you  will  see  the 
mind  follow  the  appetites  of  the  body,  or  the  body  express 
the  virtues  of  the  mind. 

Cleomira  dances  with  all  the  elegance  of  motion  imaginable ; 
but  her  eyes  are  so  chastised  with  the  simplicity  and  innocence 
of  her  thoughts,  that  she  raises  in  her  beholders  admiration  and 
good-will,  but  no  loose  hope  or  wild  imagination.  The  true  art 
in  this  case  is,  to  make  the  mind  and  body  improve  together ; 
and,  if  possible,  to  make  gesture  follow  thought,  and  not  let 
thought  be  employed  upon  gesture.    R    [Steele] 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY  AT  HOME 

No.  106.    Monday,  July  2,  1711 
Hiiu  tibi  copia 


Manabit  ad pknu?n  beiiigrw 

Kiiris  hononim  opulenta  cor/m.  —  HoR. 

Having  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  to  pass  away  a  month  with  him  in  the  country,  I 
last  week  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am  settled  with  him 
for  some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I  intend  to  form 
several  of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is  very 
well  acquainted  with  my  humour,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed 


134  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

when  I  please,  dine  at  his  own  table  or  in  my  chamber  as  I ' 
think  fit,  sit  still  and  say  nothing  without  bidding  me  be  merry. 
When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  come  to  see  him,  he  only 
shows  me  at  a  distance.  As  I  have  been  walking  in  his  fields 
I  have  observed  them  stealing  a  sight  of  me  over  a  hedge,  and 
have  heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see  them, 
for  that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  family,  because  it  con- 
sists of  sober  and  staid  persons  ;  for  as  the  knight  is  the  best 
master  in  the  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants ;  and  as  he 
is  beloved  by  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leaving 
him  ;  by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and  grown 
old  with  their  master.  You  would  take  his  valet-de-chambre  for 
his  brother,  his  butler  is  gray-headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the 
gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  coachman  has  the 
looks  of  a  privy-councillor.  You  see  the  goodness  of  the  master 
even  in  the  old  house-dog,  and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in 
the  stable  with  great  care  and  tenderness,  out  of  regard  to  his 
past  services,  though  he  has  been  useless  for  several  years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  joy 
that  appeared  in  the  countenances  of  these  ancient  domestics 
upon  my  friend's  arrival  at  his  country  seat.  Some  of  them 
could  not  refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master ; 
every  one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something  for  him, 
and  seemed  discouraged  if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the 
same  time  the  good  old  knight,  with  a  mixture  of  the  father 
and  the  master  of  the  family,  tempered  the  inquiries  after  his 
own  affairs  with  several  kind  questions  relating  to  themselves. 
This  humanity  and  good-nature  engages  everybody  to  him,  so 
that  when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all  his  family  are 
in  good  humour,  and  none  so  much  as  the  person  whom  he 
diverts  himself  with  ;  on  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays 
any  infirmity  of  old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a  stander-by  to  observe 
a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  care  of 
his  butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest 


THE  SPECTATOR  135 

of  his  fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me, 
because  they  have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as  of 
his  particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself 
in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very  venerable  man  who  is  ever 
with  Sir  Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature  of 
a  chaplain  above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of 
good  sense  and  some  learning,  of  a  very  regular  life  and  oblig- 
ing conversation  ;  he  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that 
he  is  very  much  in  the  old  knight's  esteem,  so  that  he  lives 
in  the  family  rather  as  a  relation  than  a  dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that  my  friend  Sir 
Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  a  humor- 
ist ;  and  that  his  virtues,  as  vrell  as  imperfections,  are  as  it  were 
tinged  by  a  certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them  particu- 
larly his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other  men. 
This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so 
it  renders  his  conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more  delight- 
ful than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would  appear  in 
their  common  and  ordinary  colours.  As  I  was  walking  with  him 
last  night,  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man  whom  I 
have  just  now  mentioned,  and  without  staying  for  my  answer, 
told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and 
Greek  at  his  own  table ;  for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particu- 
lar friend  of  his  at  the  university  to  find  him  out  a  clergyman 
rather  of  plain  sense  than  much  learning,  of  a  good  aspect,  a 
clear  voice,  a  sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  un- 
derstood a  little  of  backgammon.  "My  friend,"  says  Sir  Roger, 
"found  me  out  this  gentleman,  who,  beside  the  endowments 
required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a  good  scholar,  though  he 
does  not  show  it,  I  have  given  him  the  patronage  of  the  par- 
ish ;  and  because  I  know  his  value,  have  settled  upon  him  a 
good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he  shall  find  that  he 
was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks  he  is.  He 
has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years ;  and  though  he  does  not 
know  I  have  taken  notice  of  it,  has  never  in  all  that  time  asked 


136  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

anything  of  mc  for  himself,  though  he  is  every  day  sohciting 
me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my  tenants  his 
parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  lawsuit  in  the  parish  since 
he  has  lived  among  them  ;  if  any  dispute  arises,  they  apply 
themselves  to  him  for  the  decision  :  if  they  do  not  acquiesce 
in  his  judgment,  which  I  think  never  happened  above  once, 
or  twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling  with 
me,  I  made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons  which  have 
been  printed  in  English,  and  only  begged  of  him  that  every 
Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  pulpit.  Accord- 
ingly, he  has  digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that  they  follow 
one  another  naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system  of  practical 
divinity." 

As  .Sir  Roger  was, going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman  we 
were  talking  of  came  up  to  us  ;  and  upon  the  knight's  asking 
him  who  preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  night),  told 
us  the  bishop  of  .St.  Asaph  in  the  morning,  and  Dr.  South  in 
the  afternoon.  He  then  showed  us  his  list  of  preachers  for 
the  whole  year,  where  I  saw  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  Arch- 
bishop Tillotson,  ]>ishop  Saunderson,  Dr.  l^arrow.  Dr.  Calamy, 
with  several  living  authors  who  have  published  discourses  of 
practical  divinity.  I  no  sooner  saw  this  venerable  man  in  the 
pulpit,  but  I  very  much  approved  of  my  friend's  insisting  upon 
the  qualifications  of  a  good  aspect  and  a  clear  voice  ;  for  I  was 
so  charmed  with  the  gracefulness  of  his  figure  and  delivery,  as 
well  as  with  the  discourses  he  pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never 
passed  any  time  more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated 
after  this  manner  is  like  the  composition  of  a  poet  in  the  mouth 
of  a  graceful  actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy  would 
follow  this  example  ;  and  instead  of  wasting  their  spirits  in 
laborious  compositions  of  their  own,  would  endeavour  after  a 
handsome  elocution,  and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper 
to  enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  great  masters.  This  would 
not  only  be  more  easy  to  themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the 
people.    L    [Addison] 


THE  SPECTATOR  137 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  WH.L  WIMBLE 

No.  loS.    Wednesday,  July  4,  1711 
Gratis  aiiJidans,  multa  agendo  nihil  agcns.  —  Ph^d. 

As  I  was  yesterday  morning  walking  with  Sir  Roger  before 
his  house,  a  country  fellow  brought  him  a  huge  fish,  which,  he 
told  him,  Mr.  William  Wimble  had  caught  that  very  morning ; 
and  that  he  presented  it  with  his  service  to  him,  and  intended 
to  come  and  dine  with  him.  At  the  same  time  he  delivered 
a  letter,  which  my  friend  read  to  me  as  soon  as  the  messenger 
left  him. 

Sir  Roger, 

I  desire  you  to  accept  of  a  jack,  which  is  the  best  I  have  caught  this 
season.  I  intend  to  come  and  stay  with  you  a  week,  and  see  how  the  perch 
bite  in  the  Black  River.  I  observed  with  some  concern,  the  last  time  I  saw 
you  upon  the  bowling-green,  that  your  whip  wanted  a  lash  to  it ;  I  will 
bring  half  a  dozen  with  me  that  I  twisted  last  week,  which  I  hope  will  serve 
you  all  the  time  you  are  in  the  country.  I  have  not  been  out  of  the  saddle 
for  six  days  last  past,  having  been  at  Eton  with  Sir  John's  eldest  son.  He 
takes  to  his  learning  hugely. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

Will  Wimble. 

This  extraordinary  letter,  and  message  that  accompanied  it, 
made  me  very  curious  to  know  the  character  and  quality  of  the 
gentleman  who  sent  them  ;  which  I  found  to  be  as  follows  :  — 
Will  Wimble  is  younger  brother  to  a  baronet,  and  descended 
of  the  ancient  family  of  the  Wimbles.  He  is  now  between 
forty  and  fifty  ;  but  being  bred  to  no  business  and  born  to  no 
estate,  he  generally  lives  with  his  elder  brother  as  superintend- 
ent of  his  game.  He  hunts  a  pack  of  dogs  better  than  any 
man  in  the  country,  and  is  very  famous  for  finding  out  a  hare. 
He  is  extremely  well  versed  in  all  the  little  handicrafts  of  an 
idle  man.  He  makes  a  May-fly  to  a  miracle  :  and  furnishes  the 
whole  countiy  with  angle-rods.  As  he  is  a  good-natured,  offi- 
cious fellow,  and  very  much  esteemed  upon  account  of  his 
family,  he  is  a  welcome  guest  at  every  house,  and  keeps  up  a 


138  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

good  correspondence  among  all  the  gentlemen  about  him.  He 
carries  a  tulip  root  in  his  pocket  from  one  to  another,  or  ex- 
changes a  puppy  between  a  couple  of  friends  that  live  perhaps 
in  the  opposite  sides  of  the  county.  Will  is  a  particular  favourite 
of  all  the  young  heirs,  whom  he  frequently  obliges  wnth  a  net 
that  he  has  weaved,  or  a  setting-dog  that  he  has  made  himself. 
He  now  and  then  presents  a  pair  of  garters  of  his  own  knit- 
ting to  their  mothers  and  sisters  ;  and  raises  a  great  deal  of 
mirth  among  them,  by  inquiring  as  often  as  he  meets  them 
"how  they  wear.?"  These  gentleman-like  manufactures  and 
obliging  little  humours  make  Will  the  darling  of  the  country. 

Sir  Roger  was  proceeding  in  the  character  of  him,  when  he 
saw  him  make  up  to  us  with  two  or  three  hazel  twigs  in  His 
hand  that  he  had  cut  in  Sir  Roger's  woods,  as  he  came  through 
them  in  his  way  to  the  house.  I  was  very  much  pleased  to  ob- 
serve on  one  side  the  hearty  and  sincere  welcome  with  which 
Sir  Roger  received  him,  and  on  the  other,  the  secret  joy  which 
his  guest  discovered  at  the  sight  of  the  good  old  knight.  After 
the  first  salutes  were  over,  Will  desired  Sir  Roger  to  lend  him 
one  of  his  servants  to  carry  a  set  of  shuttlecocks  he  had  with 
him  in  a  little  box,  to  a  lady  that  lived  about  a  mile  off,  to 
whom  it  seems  he  had  promised  such  a  present  for  above  this 
half-year.  Sir  Roger's  back  was  no  sooner  turned,  but  honest 
Will  began  to  tell  me  of  a  large  cock  pheasant  that  he  had 
sprung  in  one  of  the  neighbouring  woods,  with  two  or  three 
other  adventures  of  the  same  nature.  Odd  and  uncommon  char- 
acters are  the  game  that  I  look  for  and  most  delight  in  ;  for 
which  reason  I  was  as  much  pleased  with  the  novelty  of  the 
person  that  talked  to  me,  as  he  could  be  for  his  life  with  the 
springing  of  a  pheasant,  and  therefore  listened  to  him  with 
more  than  ordinary  attention. 

In  the  midst  of  his  discourse  the  bell  rang  to  dinner,  where 
the  gentleman  I  have  been  speaking  of  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  huge  jack  he  had  caught  served  up  for  the  first  dish 
in  a  most  sumptuous  manner.  Upon  our  sitting  down  to  it  he 
gave  us  a  long  account  how  he  had  hooked  it,  played  with  it, 


2^HE  SPECTATOR  139 

foiled  it,  and  at  length  drew  it  out  upon  the  bank  —  with  sev- 
eral other  particulars  that  lasted  all  the  first  course.  A  dish  of 
wild  fowl  that  came  aftenvard  furnished  conversation  for  the 
rest  of  the  dinner,  which  concluded  with  a  late  invention  of 
W' ill's  for  improving  the  quail-pipe. 

Upon  withdrawing  into  my  room  after  dinner,  I  was  secretly 
touched  with  compassion  towards  the  honest  gentleman  that  had 
dined  with  us ;  and  could  not  but  consider  with  a  great  deal  of 
concern,  how  so  good  a  heart  and  such  busy  hands  were  wholly 
employed  in  trifles  ;  that  so  much  humanity  should  be  so  little 
beneficial  to  others,  and  so  much  industry  so  little  advantageous 
to  himself.  The  same  temper  of  mind  and  application  to  affairs 
might  have  recommended  him  to  the  public  esteem,  and  have 
raised  his  fortune  in  another  station  of  life.  What  good  to  his 
country  or  himself  might  not  a  trader  or  merchant  have  done 
with  such  useful  though  ordinary  qualifications  } 

Will  Wimble's  is  the  case  of  many  a  younger  brother  of  a 
great  family,  who  had  rather  see  their  children  starve  like  gen- 
tlemen, than  thrive  in  a  trade  or  profession  that  is  beneath 
their  quality.  This  humour  fills  several  parts  of  Europe  with 
pride  and  beggary.  It  is  the  happiness  of  a  trading  nation  like 
ours,  that  the  younger  sons,  though  incapable  of  any  liberal  art 
or  profession,  may  be  placed  in  such  a  way  of  life  as  may  per- 
haps enable  them  to  vie  with  the  best  of  their  family.  Accord- 
ingly we  find  several  citizens  that  were  launched  into  the  world 
with  narrow  fortunes,  rising  by  an  honest  industry  to  greater 
estates  than  those  of  their  elder  brothers.  It  is  not  improbable 
but  W^ill  was  formerly  tried  at  divinity,  law,  or  physic,  and 
that,  finding  his  genius  did  not  lie  in  that  way,  his  parents 
gave  him  up  at  length  to  his  own  inventions.  But  certainly, 
however  improper  he  might  have  been  for  studies  of  a  higher 
nature,  he  was  perfectly  well  turned  for  the  occupations  of  trade 
and  commerce.  As  I  think  this  is  a  point  which  cannot  be 
too  much  inculcated,  I  shall  desire  my  reader  to  compare  what 
I  have  here  written  with  what  I  have  said  in  my  twenty-first 
speculation.    L    [Addison] 


> 


I40  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

THE  STORY  OF  EUDOXUS  AND  LEONTINE 

No.   123.    Saturday,  July  21,  1711 

Doctrina  sed  vim  promovet  itisitam 
Rectiqiie  cult  us  pedora  roborant  : 
Utcunque  dcfeccre  7/iorcs, 

Dedecorant  bene  nata  culpcc.  —  HoR. 

As  I  was  yesterday  taking  the  air  with  my  friend  Sir  Roger, 
we  were  met  by  a  fresh-coloured,  ruddy  young  man  who  rode 
by  us  full  speed,  with  a  couple  of  servants  behind  him.  Upon 
my  inquiry  who  he  was,  Sir  Roger  told  me  that  he  was  a 
young  gentleman  of  a  considerable  estate,  who  had  been  edu- 
cated by  a  tender  mother  that  lived  not  many  miles  from  the 
place  where  we  were.  She  is  a  very  good  lady,  says  my  friend, 
but  took  so  much  care  of  her  son's  health,  that  she  has  made 
him  good  for  nothing.  She  quickly  found  that  reading  was 
bad  for  his  eyes,  and  that  writing  made  his  head  ache.  He 
was  let  loose  among  the  woods  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  ride 
on  horseback,  or  to  carry  a  gun  upon  his  shoulder.  To  be 
brief,  I  found,  by  my  friend's  account  of  him,  that  he  had  got 
a  great  stock  of  health,  and  nothing  else ;  and  that  if  it  were 
a  man's  business  only  to  live,  there  would  not  be  a  more 
accomplished  young  fellow  in  the  whole  county. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  since  my  residing  in  these  parts,  I  have 
seen  and  heard  innumerable  instances  of  young  heirs  and  elder 
brothers,  who,  either  from  their  own  reflecting  upon  the  estates 
they  are  born  to,  and  therefore  thinking  all  other  accomplish- 
ments unnecessary,  or  from  hearing  these  notions  frequently 
inculcated  to  them  by  the  flattery  of  their  servants  and  domes- 
tics, or  from  the  same  foolish  thought  prevailing  in  those  who 
have  the  care  of  their  education,  are  of  no  manner  of  use  but 
to  keep  up  their  families,  and  transmit  their  lands  and  houses 
in  a  line  to  posterity. 

This  makes  me  often  think  on  a  story  I  have  heard  of  two 
friends,  which  I  shall  give  my  reader  at  large,  under  feigned 


THE  SPECTATOR  141 

names.  The  moral  of  it  may,  I  hope,  be  useful,  though  there 
are  some  circumstances  which  make  it  rather  appear  like  a 
novel,  than  a  tme  story. 

Eudoxus  and  Leontine  began  the  world  with  small  estates. 
They  were  both  of  them  men  of  good  sense  and  great  virtue. 
They  prosecuted  their  studies  together  in  their  earlier  years, 
and  entered  into  such  a  friendship  as  lasted  to  the  end  of 
their  lives.  Eudoxus,  at  his  first  setting  out  in  the  world, 
threw  himself  into  a  court,  where  by  his  natural  endowments 
and  his  acquired  abilities,  he  made  his  way  from  one  post  to 
another,  till  at  length  he  had  raised  a  ver}'  considerable  fortune. 
Leontine,  on  the  contrary,  sought  all  opportunities  of  improv- 
ing his  mind  by  study,  conversation,  and  travel.  He  was  not 
only  acquainted  with  all  the  sciences,  but  with  the  most  eminent 
professors  of  them  throughout  Europe.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  the  interests  of  its  princes,  with  the  customs  and  fashions 
of  their  courts,  and  could  scarce  meet  with  the  name  of  an 
extraordinary  person  in  the  Gazette  whom  he  had  not  either 
talked  to  or  seen.  In  short,  he  had  so  well  mixed  and  digested 
his  knowledge  of  men  and  books,  that  he  made  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  persons  of  his  age.  During  the  whole  course 
of  his  studies  and  travels  he  kept  up  a  punctual  correspondence 
with  Eudoxus,  who  often  made  himself  acceptable  to  the  prin- 
cipal men  about  court,  by  the  intelligence  which  he  received 
from  Leontine.  When  they  were  both  turned  of  forty  (an  age 
in  which,  according  to  Mr.  Cowley,  "there  is  no  dallying  with 
life"),  they  determined,  pursuant  to  the  resolution  they  had 
taken  in  the  beginning  of  their  lives,  to  retire,  and  pass  the 
remainder  of  their  days  in  the  country.  In  order  to  this,  they 
both  of  them  married  much  about  the  same  time.  Leontine, 
with  his  own  and  his  wife's  fortune,  bought  a  farm  of  three  hun- 
dred a  year,  which  lay  within  the  neighbourhood  of  his  friend 
Eudoxus,  who  had  purchased  an  estate  of  as  many  thousands. 
They  were  both  of  them  fathers  about  the  same  tirpe,  Eudoxus 
having  a  son  born  to  him,  and  Leontine  a  daughter ;  but  to 
the  unspeakable  grief  of  the  latter,  his  young  wife  (in  whom 


142  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

all  his  happiness  was  wrapt  up)  died  in  a  few  days  after  the 
birth  of  her  daughter.  His  affliction  would  have  been  insup- 
portable, had  not  he  been  comforted  by  the  daily  visits  and 
conversations  of  his  friend.  As  they  were  one  day  talking 
together  with  their  usual  intimacy,  Leontine,  considering  how 
incapable  he  was  of  giving  his  daughter  a  proper  education  in 
his  own  house,  and  Eudoxus  reflecting  on  the  ordinary  behaviour 
of  a  son  who  knows  himself  to  be  the  heir  of  a  great  estate, 
they  both  agreed  upon  an  exchange  of  children,  namely,  that 
the  boy  should  be  bred  up  with  Leontine  as  his  son,  and  that 
the  girl  should  live  with  Eudoxus  as  his  daughter,  till  they 
were  each  of  them  arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  The  wife  of 
Eudoxus,  knowing  that  her  son  could  not  be  so  advantageously 
brought  up  as  under  the  care  of  Leontine,  and  considering  at 
the  same  time  that  he  would  be  perpetually  under  her  own 
eye,  was  by  degrees  prevailed  upon  to  fall  in  with  the  project. 
She  therefore  took  Leonilla,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  girl, 
and  educated  her  as  her  own  daughter.  The  two  friends  on 
each  side  had  wrought  themselves  to  such  an  habitual  tender- 
ness for  the  children  who  were  under  their  direction,  that  each 
of  them  had  the  real  passion  of  a  father,  where  the  title  was 
but  imaginary.  Florio,  the  name  of  the  young  heir  that  lived 
with  Leontine,  though  he  had  all  the  duty  and  affection  im- 
aginable for  his  supposed  parent,  was  taught  to  rejoice  at  the 
sight  of  Eudoxus,  who  visited  his  friend  very  frequently,  and 
was  dictated  by  his  natural  affection,  as  well  as  by  the  rules  of 
prudence,  to  make  himself  esteemed  and  beloved  by  Florio. 
The  boy  was  now  old  enough  to  know  his  supposed  father's 
circumstances,  and  that  therefore  he  was  to  make  his  way  in 
the  world  by  his  own  industry.  This  consideration  grew  stronger 
in  him  every  day,  and  produced  so  good  an  effect,  that  he 
applied  himself  with  more  than  ordinary  attention  to  the  pur- 
suit of  everything  which  Leontine  recommended  to  him.  His 
natural  abilities,  which  were  very  good,  assisted  by  the  direc- 
tions of  so  excellent  a  counselor,  enabled  him  to  make  a  quicker 
progress  than  ordinary  through  all  the  parts  of  his  education. 


THE  SPECTATOR  143 

iicfore  he  was  twenty  years  of  age,  having  finished  his  studies 
and  exercises  with  great  applause,  he  was  removed  from  the 
university  to  the  inns  of  court,  where  there  are  very  few  that 
make  themselves  considerable  proficients  in  the  studies  of  the 
place,  who  know  they  shall  arrive  at  great  estates  without  them. 
This  was  not  Florio's  case  ;  he  found  that  three  hundred  a 
year  was  but  a  poor  estate  for  Leontine  and  himself  to  live 
upon,  so  that  he  studied  without  intermission  till  he  gained  a 
very  good  insight  into  the  constitution  and  laws  of  his  country. 
I  should  have  told  my  reader  that,  while  Florio  lived  at  the 
house  of  his  foster-father,  he  was  alwa}'s  an  acceptable  guest 
in  the  family  of  Eudoxus,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Leonilla  from  her  infancy.  His  acquaintance  with  her  by  de- 
grees grew  into  love,  which  in  a  mind  trained  up  in  all  the 
sentiments  of  honour  and  virtue  became  a  very  uneasy  passion. 
He  despaired  of  gaining  an  heiress  of  so  great  a  fortune  and 
would  rather  have  died  than  attempted  it  by  any  indirect 
methods.  Leonilla,  who  was  a  woman  of  the  greatest  beauty, 
joined  with  the  greatest  modesty,  entertained  at  the  same  time 
a  secret  passion  for  Florio,  but  conducted  herself  with  so  much 
prudence  that  she  never  gave  him  the  least  intimation  of  it. 
Florio  was  now  engaged  in  all  those  arts  and  improvements 
that  are  proper  to  raise  a  man's  private  fortune  and  give  him 
a  figure  in  his  countr}-,  but  secretly  tormented  with  that  passion 
which  burns  with  the  greatest  fury  in  a  virtuous  and  noble 
heart,  when  he  received  a  sudden  summons  from  Leontine  to 
repair  to  him  into  the  country  the  next  day  :  for  it  seems 
Eudoxus  was  so  filled  with  the  report  of  his  son's  reputation, 
that  he  could  no  longer  withhold  making  himself  known  to 
him.  The  morning  after  his  arrival  at  the  house  of  his  sup- 
posed father,  Leontine  told  him  that  Eudoxus  had  something 
of  great  importance  to  communicate  to  him  ;  upon  which  the 
good  man  embraced  him,  and  wept.  Florio  was  no  sooner 
arrived  at  the  great  house  that  stood  in  his  neighbourhood,  but 
Eudoxus  took  him  by  the  hand,  after  the  first  salutes  were 
over,  and  conducted  him  into  his  closet.    He  there  opened  to 


144  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

him  the  whole  secret  of  his  parentage  and  education,  conclud- 
ing after  this  manner  :  "I  have  no  other  way  left  of  acknowl- 
edging my  gratitude  to  Leontinc,  than  by  marrying  you  to  his 
daughter.  He  shall  not  lose  the  pleasure  of  being  your  father 
by  the  discovery  I  have  made  to  you.  Leonilla,  too,  shall  be 
still  my  daughter  :  her  filial  piety,  though  misplaced,  has  been 
so  exemplary  that  it  deserves  the  greatest  reward  I  can  confer 
upon  it.  You  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  great  estate 
fall  to  you,  which  you  would  have  lost  the  relish  of  had  you 
known  yourself  born  to  it.  Continue  only  to  deserve  it  in  the 
same  manner  you  did  before  you  were  possessed  of  it.  I  have 
left  your  mother  in  the  next  room.  Her  heart  yearns  towards 
you.  She  is  making  the  same  discoveries  to  Leonilla  which  I 
have  made  to  yourself."  Florio  was  so  overwhelmed  with  this 
profusion  of  happiness  that  he  was  not  able  to  make  a  reply, 
but  threw  himself  dowai  at  his  father's  feet,  and,  amidst  a  flood 
of  tears,  kissed  and  embraced  his  knees,  asking  his  blessing, 
and  expressing  in  dumb  show  those  sentiments  of  love,  duty, 
and  gratitude,  that  were  too  big  for  utterance.  To  conclude, 
the  happy  pair  were  married,  and  half  Eudoxus's  estate  settled 
upon  them.  Leontine  and  Eudoxus  passed  the  remainder  of 
their  lives  together,  and  received  in  the  dutiful  and  affectionate 
behaviour  of  Plorio  and  Leonilla  the  just  recompense,  as  well 
as  the  natural  effects,  of  that  care  which  they  had  bestowed 
upon  them   in  their  education.    L    [Addjson] 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA 
No.  I  59.    Saturday,  September  i ,  1  7 1 1 
Omuon^  quae  nunc  olniucta  tuoiti 


Morfah's  hebctat  I'isus  filu,  d  liumida  circuni 
Callgaf,  nubcDi  crip'unn .  —  Vmc. 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several  oriental 
manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met 
with  one  entitled,    TJtc   Msions  of  Mitrja,  which   I   have  read 


THE  SPECTATOR  145 

over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  pubHc 
when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for  them  ;  and  shall  begin 
with  the  first  vision,  whieh  I  have  translated  word  for  word 
as  follows  : 

On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  according  to  the  custom  of  my  fore- 
fathers I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my 
morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdad,  in  order  to  pass  the 
rest  of  the  clay  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on 
the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on  the  van- 
ity of  human  life  ;  and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another,  "  Surely,"  said 
I,  "man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream."  While  I  was  thus  musing,  I 
cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where 
I  discovered  one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  little  musical  instrument 
in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to 
play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  va- 
riety of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  altogether  different 
from  anything  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly 
airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  ar- 
rival in  Paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  the  last  agonies,  and  qualify 
them  for  the  pleasures  of  that  happy  place.  My  heart  melted  away  in 
secret  raptures. 

I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of  a  genius ; 
and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had  passed  by  it,  but 
never  heard  that  the  musician  had  before  made  himself  visible.  When  he 
had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those  transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to  taste 
the  pleasures  of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished, 
he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  approach 
the  plqce  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a 
superior  nature ;  and  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating 
strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  genius  smiled 
upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability  that  familiarized  him  to 
my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions  with 
which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground,  and  taking  me 
by  the  hand,  "  Mirza,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies ; 
follow  me." 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and  placing  me  on 
the  top  of  it —  "  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me  what  thou 
seest."  "  I  see,"  said  I,  "  a  huge  valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  roll- 
ing through  it."  —  "The  valley  that  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "is  the  Vale  of 
Miser}',  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  tide  of  eter- 
nity."—  "What  is  the  reason,"  said  I,  "that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a 


146  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other  ?  " 
—  "What  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "is  that  portion  of  eternity  which  is  called 
time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world  to  its  consummation."  "  Examine  now,"  said  he,  "  this  sea  that  is 
bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in 
it."  —  "I  see  a  bridge,"  said  I,  "standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide."  — 
"  The  bridge  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "  is  human  hfe ;  consider  it  attentively." 
Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  threescore 
and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that 
were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the 
arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand 
arches  :  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the 
ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  "  But  tell  me  further,"  said  he,  "  what 
thou  discoverest  on  it."  —  "I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it," 
said  I,  "  and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it."  As  I  looked  more 
attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge 
into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it :  and,  upon  farther  exami- 
nation, perceived  there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed 
in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell 
through  them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden 
pitfalls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs 
of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into 
them.  They  grew  thinner  toward  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer 
together  toward  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very  small,  that 
continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through 
one  after  another,  being  quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful  structure,  and 
the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was  filled  with  a 
deep  melancholy  to  see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves. 
Some  were  looking  up  toward  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were 
very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced 
before  them ;  but  often  when  they  thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of 
them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down  they  sank.  In  this  confusion  of  ob- 
jects, I  observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  urinals, 
who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors 
which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped 
had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melancholy  prospect,  told 
me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  "  Take  thine  eyes  off  the  bridge," 
said  he,  "  and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend." 


THE  SPECTATOR  147 

Upon  looking  up,  "  What  mean,"  said  I,  "  those  great  flights  of  birds  that 
are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time 
to  time?  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many  other 
feathered  creatures  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers 
upon  the  middle  arches."  —  "  These,''  said  the  genius,  "  are  Envy,  Avarice, 
Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest 
human  life." 

I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "  Alas,"  said  I,  "  man  was  made  in  vain  !  how 
is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality  !  tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed 
up  in  death !  "  The  genius,  being  moved  with  compassion  toward  me,  bid 
me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  "  Look  no  more,"  said  he,  "  on  man 
in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity ;  but  cast 
thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  genera- 
tions of  mortals  that  fall  into  it."  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and 
(whether  or  no  the  good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force, 
or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  pene- 
trate) I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading  forth  into 
an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the 
midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on 
one  half  of  -it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it :  but  the  other 
appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean  planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were 
covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shin- 
ing seas  that  ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious 
habits,  with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down 
by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers  ;  and  could  hear  a  con- 
fused harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices,  and  musical 
instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a 
scene.  I  wished  for  the  Avings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those 
happy  seats  :  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  passage  to  them,  except 
through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the 
bridge.  "  The  islands,"  said  he,  "  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee, 
and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou 
canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore ;  there  are 
myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  further 
than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself.  These  are  the 
mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds 
of  virtue  in  which  t!iey  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several  islands  ; 
which  abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the 
relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them  ;  every  island  is 
a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O 
Mirza.  habitations  worth  contending  for.''  Does  life  appear  miserable,  that 
gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared, 
that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence  ?    Think  not  man  was  made 


148  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for  him."  I  gazed  with  inexpres- 
sible pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  "At  length,"  said  I,  "  show  me  now, 
I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant."  The  genius  making 
me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but 
I  found  that  he  had  left  me  :  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had 
been  so  long  contemplating ;  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched 
bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long,  hollow  valley  of 
Bagdad,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels,  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it. 
The  End  of  the  First  Vision  of  Mirza. 
C  [Aduison] 

A  COQUETTE'S   HEART 

No.  28 1.    Tuesday,  January  22,  171 2 
recfflrihus  iiiJiiaus  spirantia  coiisiilit  cxta.  —  Virg. 

Having  already  given  an  account  of  the  dissection  of  the 
beau's  head,  with  the  several  discoveries  made  on  that  occa- 
sion ;  I  shall  here,  according  to  my  promise,  enter  upon  the 
dissection  of  a  coquette's  heart,  and  communicate  to  the  public 
such  particularities  as  we  observed  in  that  curious  piece  of 
anatomy. 

I  should  perhaps  have  waived  this  undertaking,  had  not  I 
been  put  in  mind  of  my  promise  by  several  of  my  unknown 
correspondents,  who  are  very  importunate  with  me  to  make 
an  example  of  the  coquette,  as  I  have  already  done  of  the 
beau.  It  is  therefore  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  my 
friends,  that  I  have  looked  over  the  minutes  of  my  former 
dream,  in  order  to  give  the  public  an  exact  relation  of  it, 
which  I  shall  enter  upon  without  further  preface. 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this  visionary  dissec- 
tion, told  us  that  there  was  nothing  in  his  art  more  difficult 
than  to  lay  open  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  by  reason  of  the 
many  labyrinths  and  recesses  which  are  to  be  found  in  it, 
and  which  do  not  appear  in  the  heart  of  any  other  animal. 

He  desired  us  first  of  all  to  observe  the  pericardium,  or 
outward  case  of  the  heart,  which  we  did  very  attentively ;  and 


THE  SPECTATOR  149 

by  the  help  of  our  glasses  discerned  in  it  millions  of  little 
scars,  which  seemed  to  have  been  occasioned  by  the  points  of 
innumerable  darts  and  arrows,  that  from  time  to  time  had 
glanced  upon  the  outward  coat ;  though  we  could  not  discover 
the  smallest  orifice,  by  which  any  of  them  had  entered  and 
pierced  the  inward  substance. 

Every  smatterer  in  anatomy  knows  that  this  pericardium,  or 
case  of  the  heart,  contains  in  it  a  thin  reddish  liquor,  sup- 
posed to  be  bred  from  the  vapours  which  exhale  out  of  the 
heart,  and  being  stopped  here,  are  condensed  into  this  watery 
substance.  Upon  examining  this  liquor,  we  found  that  it  had 
in  it  all  the  qualities  of  that  spirit  which  is  made  use  of  in 
the  thermometer,  to  show  the  change  of  weather. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of  the  company 
assured  us  he  himself  had  made  with  this  liquor,  which  he 
found  in  great  quantity  about  the  heart  of  a  coquette  whom 
he  had  formerly  dissected.  He  affirmed  to  us  that  he  had 
actually  inclosed  it  in  a  small  tube  made  after  the  manner 
of  a  weather-glass ;  but  that  instead  of  acquainting  him  with 
the  variations  of  the  atmosphere,  it  showed  him  the  qualities 
of  those  persons  who  entered  the  room  where  it  stood.  He 
affirmed  also  that  it  rose  at  the  approach  of  a  plume  of 
feathers,  an  embroidered  coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves  ; 
and  that  it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped  periwig,  a  clumsy  pair 
of  shoes,  or  an  unfashionable  coat  came  into  his  house.  Nay, 
he  proceeded  so  far  as  to  assure  us  that  upon  his  laughing 
aloud  when  he  stood  by  it,  the  liquor  mounted  very  sensibly, 
and  immediately  sunk  again  upon  his  looking  serious.  In 
short,  he  told  us  that  he  knew  very  well,  by  this  invention, 
whenever  he  had  a  man  of  sense  or  a  coxcomb  in  his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the  case,  and 
liquor  above-mentioned,  we  came  to  the  heart  itself.  The 
outward  surface  of  it  was  extremely  slippery,  and  the  mucro, 
or  point,  so  ver}^  cold  withal,  that  upon  endeavouring  to  take 
hold  of  it,  it  glided  through  the  fingers  like  a  smooth  piece 
of  ice. 


I50  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  fibers  were  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more  intricate  and 
perplexed  manner  than  they  are  usually  found  in  other  hearts  ; 
•insomuch  that  the  whole  heart  was  wound  up  together  in  a 
Gordian  knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular  and  unequal 
motions,  while  it  was  employed  in  its  vital  function. 

One  thing  we  thought  very  observable,  namely,  that  upon 
examining  all  the  vessels  which  came  into  it,  or  issued  out  of 
it,  we  could  not  discover  any  communication  that  it  had  with 
the  tongue. 

We  could  not  but  take  notice  likewise,  that  several  of  those 
little  nerves  in  the  heart  which  are  affected  by  the  sentiments 
of  love,  hatred,  and  other  passions,  did  not  descend-  to  this 
before  us  from  the  brain,  but  from  the  muscles  which  lie 
about  the  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I  found  it  to  be 
extremely  light,  and  consequently  very  hollow,  which  I  did 
not  wonder  at,  when,  upon  looking  into  the  inside  of  it,  I 
saw  multitudes  of  cells  and  cavities,  running  one  within  an- 
other, as  our  historians  describe  the  apartments  of  Rosamond's 
bower.  Several  of  these  little  hollows  were  stuffed  with  in- 
numerable sorts  of  trifles,  which  I  shall  forbear  giving  any 
particular  account  of,  and  shall  therefore  only  take  notice  of 
what  lay  first  and  uppermost,  which  upon  our  unfolding  it, 
and  applying  our  microscope  to  it,  appeared  to  be  a  flame- 
coloured  hood. 

We  were  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart,  when  living, 
received  the  addresses  of  several  who  made  love  to  her,  and 
did  not  only  give  each  of  them  encouragement,  but  made 
every  one  she  conversed  with  believe  that  she  regarded  him 
with  an  eye  of  kindness  ;  for  which  reason  we  expected  to 
have  seen  the  impressions  of  multitudes  of  faces  among  the 
several  plaits  and  foldings  of  the  heart ;  but  to  our  great  sur- 
prise not  a  single  print  of  this  nature  discovered  itself  till  we 
came  into  the  very  core  and  center  of  it.  We  there  observed 
a  little  figure,  which,  upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  appeared 
dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner.    The  more  I  looked  upon 


THE  SPECTATOR  151 

it,  the  more  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  face  before,  l)ut  could 
not  possibly  recollect  either  the  place  or  time  ;  when  at  length, 
one  of  the  company,  who  had  examined  this  figure  more 
nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  us  plainly  by  the  make  of  its 
face,  and  the  several  turns  of  its  features,  that  the  little  idol 
that  was  thus  lodged  in  the  very  middle  of  the  heart  was  the 
deceased  beau,  whose  head  I  gave  some  account  of  in  my  last 
Tuesday's  paper. 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we  resolved  to 
make  an  experiment  of  the  heart,  not  being  able  to  determine 
among  ourselves  the  nature  of  its  substance,  which  differed  in 
so  many  particulars  from  that  of  the  heart  in  other  females. 
Accordingly  we  laid  it  in  a  pan  of  burning  coals,  when  we 
observed  in  it  a  certain  salamandrine  quality,  that  made  it 
capable  of  living  in  the  midst  of  fire  and  flame,  without  being 
consumed,  or  so  much  as  singed. 

As  we  were  admiring  this  strange  phenomenon,  and  stand- 
ing round  the  heart  in  a  circle,  it  gave  a  most  prodigious  sigh, 
or  rather  crack,  and  dispersed  all  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapour. 
This  imaginary  noise,  which,  methought,  was  louder  than  the 
burst  of  a  cannon,  produced  such  a  violent  shake  in  my  brain, 
that  it  dissipated  the  fumes  of  sleep  and  left  me  in  an  instant 
broad  awake.    L    [Addison] 

CLARINDA'S   JOURNAL 

No.  323.    Tuesday,  March  ir,  1712 
Modo  7'ir,  modo  feiniiia .  —  Ovid. 


The  journal  with  which  I  presented  my  reader  on  Tuesday 
last,  has  brought  me  in  several  letters  with  account  of  many 
private  lives  cast  into  that  form.  I  have  the  Rake  s  Journal, 
the  Sof s  Journal,  the  WJiorcniastcr' s  Joui'iial,  and  among 
several  others,  a  very  curious  piece,  entitled  The  Journal  oj 
a  Mohoek.  By  these  instances,  I  find  that  the  intention  of 
my  last  Tuesday's  paper  has  been  mistaken  by  many  of  my 


152  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

readers.  I  did  not  design  so  much  to  expose  vice,  as  idleness, 
and  aimed  at  those  persons  who  pass  away  their  time  rather 
in  trifle  and  impertinence,  than  in  crimes  and  immorahties. 
Offenses  of  this  latter  kind  are  not  to  be  dallied  with,  or  treated 
in  so  ludicrous  a  manner.  In  short,  my  journal  only  holds 
up  folly  to  the  light,  and  shows  the  disagreeableness  of  such 
actions  as  are  indifferent  in  themselves,  and  blamable  only  as 
they  proceed  from  creatures  endowed  with  reason. 

My  following  correspondent,  who  calls  herself  Clarinda,  is 
such  a  journalist  as  I  require.  She  seems  by  her  letter  to 
be  placed  in  a  modish  state  of  indifference  between  vice  and 
virtue,  and  to  be  susceptible  of  either,  were  there  proper  pains 
taken  with  her.  Had  her  journal  been  filled  with  gallantries, 
or  such  occurrences  as  had  shown  her  wholly  divested  of  her 
natural  innocence,  notwithstanding  it  might  have  been  more 
pleasing  to  the  generality  of  readers,  I  should  not  have  pub- 
lished it :  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture  of  a  life  filled  with  a 
fashionable  kind  of  gayety  and  laziness,  I  shall  set  down  five 
days  of  it,  as  I  have  received  it  from  the  hand  of  my  fair 
correspondent. 

Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

You  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in  one  of  your  last  week's 
papers,  I  have  performed  mine  according  to  your  orders,  and  herewith 
send  it  you  inclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am  a  maiden 
lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have  had  several  good  matches  offered  me 
for  these  ten  years  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm  applications  made 
to  me  by  "  A  Very  Pretty  Fellow."  As  I  am  at  my  own  disposal,  I  come 
up  to  town  every  winter,  and  pass  my  time  in  it  after  the  manner  you 
will  find  in  the  following  journal,  which  I  began  to  write  upon  the  very 
day  after  your  Spectator  upon  that  subject. 

"  Tuesday  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in  the  morning  for 
thinking  of  my  journal. 

"  Wednesday.  From  eight  till  ten.  Drank  two  dishes  of  chocolate 
in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  after  them. 

"  From  ten  to  eleven.  Ate  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  drank  a  dish 
of  bohea,  and  read  the  Spec/ato?: 

"  From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette,  tried  a  new  head.  Gave  orders 
for  \x'ny  to  be  combed  and  washed.    Mem.    1  look  best  in  lilue. 


THE  SPECTATOR  153 

"  From  one  till  half  an  hour  after  two.  Drove  to  the  'Change. 
Cheapened  a  couple  of  fans. 

"  Till  four.   At  dinner.    Mem.    Mr.  Froth  passed  by  in  his  new  liveries. 

"  From  four  to  si.x.  Dressed ;  paid  a  visit  to  old  Lady  Blithe  and  her 
sister,  having  before  heard  they  were  gone  out  of  town  that  day. 

"  From  six  to  eleven.  At  basset.  Mem.  Never  set  again  upon  the  ace 
of  diamonds. 

"  Thursday.  From  eleven  at  night  to  eight  in  the  morning.  Dreamed 
that  I  punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

"  From  eight  to  ten.    Chocolate.    Read  two  acts  in  Aurciii^sebe  a-bed. 

"  From  ten  to  eleven.  Tea-table.  Sent  to  borrow  Lady  Faddle's  Cupid 
for  Veny.  Read  the  play-bills.  Received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Froth.  Mem. 
Locked  it  up  in  my  strong  box. 

"  Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the  tire-woman,  her  account  of  my 
lady  Blithe's  wash.  Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little  tortoise-shell  comb.  Sent 
Frank  to  know  how  my  Lady  Hectic  rested  after  her  monkey's  leaping 
out  at  window.  Looked  pale.  Fontange  tells  me  my  glass  is  not  true. 
Dressed  by  three. 

"  From  three  to  four.    Dinner  cold  before  I  sat  down. 

"  From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company.  Mr.  Froth's  opinion  of  Milton. 
His  account  of  the  Mohocks.  His  fancy  of  a  pincushion.  Picture  in  the 
lid  of  his  snuff-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle  promises  me  her  woman  to  cut 
my  hair.     Lost  five  guineas  at  crimp. 

"Twelve  o'clock  at  night.    Went  to  bed. 

^'^  Friday.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed.  Read  over  all  Mr.  Froth's 
letters.     Cupid  and  A'eny. 

"  Ten  o'clock.    Stayed  within  all  day,  not  at  home. 

"  From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference  with  my  mantuamaker.  Sorted 
a  suit  of  ribbons.     Broke  my  blue  china  cup. 

"  From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up  in  my  chamber,  practiced  Lady 
Betty  Modley's  skutde. 

"  One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered  handkerchief.  Worked 
half  a  violet  leaf  in  it.  Eyes  ached  and  head  out  of  order.  Threw  by 
my  work,  and  read  over  the  remaining  part  of  Auretigzebe. 

"  From  three  to  four.    Dined. 

"  From  four  to  twelve.  Changed  my  mind,  dressed,  went  abroad,  and 
played  at  crimp  till  midnight.  Found  Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.  Conversation. 
Mrs.  Brilliant's  necklace  false  stones.  Old  Lady  Loveday  going  to  be  married 
to  a  young  fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  coun- 
try. Tom  Townley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely  whispered  in  my  ear 
that  she  had  something  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth  ;  I  am  sure  it  is  not  true. 

"  Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that  Mr.  Froth  lay  at  my  feet, 
and  called  me  Indamora. 


154  'I'HK  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

"  Salurday.  Rose  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sat  down  to  my 
toilette. 

"  I->om  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an  hour  before  I  could 
determine  it.    Fixed  it  above  my  left  eyebrow. 

"  From  nine  to  twelve.    Drank  my  tea  and  dressed. 

"  From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of  good  company. 
Mem.   The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.     Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

"  From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Miss  Kitty  called  upon  me  to  go  to  the 
opera  before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

"  From  dinner  to  six.  Drank  tea.  Turned  off  a  footman  for  being 
rude  to  Veny. 

"  Six  o'clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Froth  till  the 
beginning  of  the  second  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a  gentleman  in  a  black 
wig.  Bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box.  Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped 
Nicolini  in  the  third  act.  Mr.  Froth  cried  out  'Ancora.'  Mr.  Froth  led 
me  to  my  chair.    I  think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 

"  Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy  dreams.  Methought 
Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

"  Sunday.    Indisposed. 

^'  Mo7tday.  Eight  o'clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty.  Aiirengzebe  lay 
upon  the  chair  by  me.  Kitty  repeated  without  book  the  eight  best  lines  in 
the  play.  Went  in  our  mobs  to  the  dumb  man,  according  to  appointment. 
Told  me  that  my  lover's  name  began  with  a  G.  Mem.  The  conjurer  was 
within  a  letter  of  Mr.  Froth's  name,  etc." 

.  Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  journal,  I  find  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know  whether  I  pass  my  time  well  or  ill ;  and  indeed  never  thought  of 
considering  how  1  did  it  before  I  perused  your  speculation  upon  that  sub- 
ject. I  scarce  find  a  single  action  in  these  five  days  that  I  can  thoroughly 
approve  of,  except  in  the  working  upon  the  violet  leaf,  which  I  am  resolved 
to  finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr.  Froth  and  Veny,  I  did 
not  think  they  took  up  so  much  of  my  time  and  thoughts  as  I  find  they  do 
upon  my  journal.  The  latter  of  them  I  will  turn  off,  if  you  insist  upon  it ; 
and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring  matters  to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly, 
I  will  not  let  my  life  run  away  in  a  dream. 

Your  humble  Servant, 

Clarinda. 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first  paper,  and  to  con- 
firm Clarinda  in  her  good  inclinations,  I  would  have  her  con- 
sider what  a  pretty  figure  she  would  make  among  posterity, 
were  the  history  of  her  whole  life  published  like  these  five 
days  of  it.    I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  an  epitaph  written 


THE  SPECTATOR  155 

by  an  uncertain  author  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  sister,  a  lady 
who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  temper  very  much  different  from 
that  of  Clarinda.  The  last  thought  of  it  is  so  very  noble,  that 
I  dare  say  my  reader  will  pardon  me  the  quotation. 

ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF  PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  marble  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother ; 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  kill'd  another, 
Fair  and  learn'd,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee.  L 

[Addison] 

CHEERFULNESS 

No.  381.    Saturday,  May  17,  171 2 

Aeqiiam  manento  rebus  in  ardnis 
Servare  vientem^  non  sec  us  in  botiis, 

Ab  insolenti  temperatam 

Laetifia,  montnre  Deli.  —  Hor. 

I  have  always  prefeiTcd  cheerfulness  to  mirth.  The  latter 
I  consider  as  an  act,  the  former  as  a  habit  of  the  mind. 
Mirth  is  short  and  transient,  cheerfulness  fixed  and  perma- 
nent. Those  are  often  raised  into  the  greatest  transports  of 
mirth,  who  are  subject  to  the  greatest  depressions  of  melan- 
choly. On  the  contrary,  cheerfulness,  though  it  does  not  give 
the  mind  such  an  exquisite  gladness,  prevents  us  from  falling 
into  any  depths  of  sorrow.  Mirth  is  like  a  flash  of  lightning, 
that  breaks  through  a  gloom  of  clouds  and  glitters  for  a 
moment ;  cheerfulness  keeps  up  a  kind  of  daylight  in  the 
mind,  and  fills  it  with  a  steady  and  perpetual  serenity. 

Men  of  austere  principles  look  upon  mirth  as  too  wanton 
and  dissolute  for  a  state  of  probation,  and  as  filled  with  a 
certain  triumph  and  insolence  of  heart  that  is  inconsistent 
with  a  life  which  is  every  moment  obnoxious  to  the  greatest 


156  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

dangers.  Writers  of  this  complexion  have  observed  that  the 
Sacred  Person  who  was  the  great  pattern  of  perfection  was 
never  seen  to  laugh. 

Cheerfulness  of  mind  is  not  liable  to  any  of  these  excep- 
tions ;  it  is  of  a  serious  and  composed  nature  ;  it  does  not 
throw  the  mind  into  a  condition  improper  for  the  present 
state  of  humanity,  and  is  very  conspicuous  in  the  characters 
of  those  who  are  looked  upon  as  the  greatest  philosophers 
among  the  heathens,  as  well  as  among  those  who  have  been 
deservedly  esteemed  as  saints  and  holy  men  among  Christians. 

If  we  consider  cheerfulness  in  three  lights,  with  regard  to 
ourselves,  to  those  we  converse  with,  and  to  the  great  Author 
of  our  being,  it  will  not  a  litde  recommend  itself  on  each  of 
these  accounts.  The  man  who  is  possessed  of  this  excellent 
frame  of  mind  is  not  only  easy  in  his  thoughts,  but  a  perfect 
master  of  all  the  powers  and  faculties  of  his  soul.  His  imag- 
ination is  always  clear,  and  his  judgment  undisturbed ;  his 
temper  is  even  and  unruffled,  whether  in  action  or  in  solitude. 
He  comes  with  relish  to  all  those  goods  which  nature  has  pro- 
vided for  him,  tastes  all  the  pleasures  of  the  creation  wliich 
are  poured  about  him,  and  does  not  feel  the  full  weight  of 
those  accidental  evils  which  may  befall  him. 

If  we  consider  him  in  relation  to  the  persons  whom  he 
converses  with,  it  naturally  produces  love  and  good-will  towards 
him.  A  cheerful  mind  is  not  only  disposed  to  be  affable  and 
obliging,  but  raises  the  same  good  humour  in  those  who  come 
within  its  influence.  A  man  finds  himself  pleased,  he  does 
not  know  why,  with  the  cheerfulness  of  his  companion.  It  is 
like  a  sudden  sunshine  that  awakens  a  secret  delight  in  the 
mind,  without  her  attending  to  it.  The  heart  rejoices  of  its 
own  accord,  and  naturally  flows  out  into  friendship  and  benev- 
olence toward  the  person  who  has  so  kindly  an  effect  upon  it. 

When  I  consider  this  cheerful  state  of  mind  in  its  third 
relation,  I  cannot  but  look  upon  it  as  a  constant  habitual  grati- 
tude to  the  great  Author  of  nature.  An  inward  cheerfulness 
is  an  implicit  praise  and  thanksgiving  to  Providence  under  all 


THE  SPECTATOR  157 

its  dispensations.  It  is  a  kind  of  acquiescence  in  the  state 
wherein  we  are  placed,  and  a  secret  approbation  of  the  Divine 
Will  in  his  conduct  toward  man. 

There  are  but  two  things  which,  in  my  opinion,  can  reason- 
ably deprive  us  of  this  cheerfulness  of  heart.  The  first  of 
these  is  the  sense  of  guilt.  A  man  who  lives  in  a  state  of 
vice  and  impenitence  can  have  no  title  to  that  evenness  and 
tranquillity  of  mind  which  is  the  health  of  the  soul,  and  the 
natural  effect  of  virtue  and  innocence.  Cheerfulness  in  an  ill 
man  deserves  a  harder  name  than  language  can  furnish  us 
with,  and  is  many  degrees  beyond  what  we  commonly  call 
folly  or  madness. 

Atheism,  by  which  I  mean  a  disbelief  of  a  Supreme  Being, 
and  consequently  of  a  future  state,  under  whatsoever  titles  it 
shelters  itself,  may  likewise  very  reasonably  deprive  a  man  of 
this  cheerfulness  of  temper.  There  is  something  so  particu- 
larly gloomy  and  offensive  to  human  nature  in  the  prospect  of 
non-existence,  that  I  cannot  but  wonder,  with  many  excellent 
writers,  how  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  outlive  the  expectation 
of  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  the  being  of  a  God  is  so 
little  to  be  doubted,  that  it  is  almost  the  only  truth  \\e  are 
sure  of ;  and  such  a  truth  as  we  meet  with  in  every  object,  in 
every  occurrence,  and  in  every  thought.  If  we  look  into  the 
characters  of  this  tribe  of  infidels,  we  generally  find  they  are 
made  up  of  pride,  spleen,  and  cavil.  It  is  indeed  no  wonder 
that  men  who  are  uneasy  to  themselves  should  be  so  to  the 
rest  of  the  world  ;  and  how  is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be 
otherwise  than  uneasy  in  himself,  who  is  in  danger  every 
moment  of  losing  his  entire  existence,  and  dropping  into 
nothing  1 

The  vicious  man  and  atheist  have  therefore  no  pretense  to 
cheerfulness,  and  would  act  very  unreasonably  should  they  en- 
deavour after  it.  It  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  live  in  good- 
humour,  and  enjoy  his  present  existence,  who  is  apprehensive 
either  of  torment  or  of  annihilation^  of  being  miserable,  or  of 
not  being  at  all. 


I5S  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

After  having  mentioned  these  two  great  principles,  which 
are  destructive  of  cheerfuhiess  in  their  own  nature,  as  well  as 
in  right  reason,  I  cannot  think  of  any  other  that  ought  to 
banish  this  happy  temper  from  a  virtuous  mind.  Pain  and 
sickness,  shame  and  reproach,  poverty  and  old  age,  nay  death 
itself,  considering  the  shortness  of  their  duration,  and  the 
advantage  we  may  reap  from  them,  do  not  deserve  the  name 
of  evils.  A  good  mind  may  bear  up  under  them  with  forti- 
tude, with  indolence,  and  with  cheerfulness  of  heart.  The 
tossing  of  a  tempest  does  not  discompose  him,  which  he  is 
sure  will  bring  him  to  a  joyful  harbour. 

A  man  who  uses  his  best  endeavours  to  live  according  to  the 
dictates  of  virtue  and  right  reason,  has  two  perpetual  sources 
of  cheerfulness,  in  the  consideration  of  his  own  nature,  and  of 
that  Being  on  whom  he  has  a  dependence.  If  he  looks  into 
himself,  he  cannot  but  rejoice  in  that  existence  which  is  so 
lately  bestowed  upon  him,  and  which  after  millions  of  ages 
will  be  still  new  and  still  in  its  beginning.  How  many  self- 
congratulations  naturally  arise  in  the  mind,  when  it  reflects  on 
this  its  entrance  into  eternity,  when  it  takes  a  view  of  those 
improvable  faculties,  which  in  a  few  years,  and  even  at  its 
first  setting  out,  have  made  so  considerable  a  progress,  and 
which  will  still  be  receiving  an  increase  of  perfection,  and  con- 
sequently an  increase  of  happiness.  The  consciousness  of  such 
a  being  spreads  a  perpetual  diffusion  of  joy  through  the  soul 
of  a  virtuous  man,  and  makes  him  look  upon  himself  every 
moment  as  more  happy  than  he  knows  how  to  conceive. 

The  second  source  of  cheerfulness  to  a  good  mind  is  its 
consideration  of  that  Being  on  whom  we  have  our  dependence, 
and  in  whom,  though  we  behold  him  as  yet  but  in  the  first 
faint  discoveries  of  his  perfections,  we  see  everything  that  we 
can  imagine,  as  great,  glorious,  or  amiable.  We  find  ourselves 
everywhere  upheld  by  his  goodness,  and  surrounded  with  an 
immensity  of  love  and  mercy.  In  short,  we  depend  upon  a 
Being  whose  power  qualifies  him  to  make  us  happy  by  an 
infinity  of  means,  whose  goodness  and  truth  engage  him  to 


THE  SPECTATOR  159 

make  those  happy  who  desire  it  of  him,  and  whose  unchange- 
ableness  will  secure  us  in  this  happiness  to  all  eternity. 

Such  considerations,  which  every  one  should  perpetually 
cherish  in  his  thoughts,  will  banish  from  us  all  that  secret 
heaviness  of  heart  which  unthinking  men  are  subject  to  when 
they  lie  under  no  real  affliction,  all  that  anguish  which  we  may 
feel  from  any  evil  that  actually  oppresses  us,  to  which  I  may 
likewise  add  those  little  cracklings  of  mirth  and  folly  that  are 
apter  to  betray  virtue  than  support  it ;  and  establish  in  us  such 
an  even  and  cheerful  temper,  as  makes  us  pleasing  to  our- 
selves, to  those  with  whom  we  converse,  and  to  Him  whom 
we  were  made  to  please.    I    [Addison] 


LITERARY  TASTE 

No.  409.    Thursday,  June  19,  1712 
-  AIuscco  contiiigens  cimda  Icpon.  —  LucR. 


Gratian  very  often  recommends  "the  fine  taste"  as  the 
utmost  perfection  of  an  accomplished  man.  As  this  word 
arises  very  often  in  conversation,  I  shall  endeavour  to  give 
some  account  of  it,  and  to  lay  down  rules  how  we  may  know 
whether  we  are  possessed  of  it,  and  how  we  may  acquire  that 
fine  taste  of  writing  which  is  so  much  talked  of  among  the 
polite  world. 

Most  languages  make  use  of  this  metaphor,  to  express  that 
faculty  of  the  mind  which  distinguishes  all  the  most  concealed 
faults  and  nicest  perfections  in  writing.  We  may  be  sure  this 
metaphor  would  not  have  been  so  general  in  all  tongues,  had 
there  not  been  a  very  great  conformity  between  that  mental 
taste,  which  is  the  subject  of  this  paper,  and  that  sensitive 
taste,  which  gives  us  a  relish  of  every  different  flavour  that 
affects  the  palate.  Accordingly  we  find  there  are  as  many 
degrees  of  refinement  in  the  intellectual  faculty  as  in  the  sense 
which  is  marked  out  by  this  common  denomination. 


i6o  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

I  knew  a  person  who  possessed  the  one  in  so  great  a  per- 
fection, that,  after  having  tasted  ten  different  kinds  of  tea,  he 
woukl  distinguish,  without  seeing  the  colour  of  it,  the  particu- 
lar sort  which  was  offered  him  ;  and  not  only  so,  but  any  two 
sorts  of  them  that  were  mixed  together  in  an  equal  propor- 
tion ;  nay,  he  has  carried  the  experiment  so  far,  as,  upon 
tasting  the  composition  of  three  different  sorts,  to  name  the 
parcels  from  whence  the  three  several  ingredients  were  taken, 
A  man  of  a  fine  taste  in  writing  will  discern,  after  the  same 
manner,  not  only  the  general  beauties  and  imperfections  of  an 
author,  but  discover  the  several  ways  of  thinking  and  express- 
ing himself,  which  diversify  him  from  all  other  authors,  with 
the  several  foreign  infusions  of  thought  and  language,  and 
the  particular  authors  from  whom  they  were  borrowed. 

After  having  thus  far  explained  what  is  generally  meant  by 
a  fine  taste  in  writing,  and  shown  the  propriety  of  the  meta- 
phor which  is  used  on  this  occasion,  I  think  I  may  define  it 
to  be  "  that  faculty  of  the  soul,  which  discerns  the  beauties  of 
an  author  with  pleasure,  and  the  imperfections  with  dislike." 
If  a  man  would  know  whether  he  is  possessed  of  this  faculty, 
I  would  have  him  read  over  the  celebrated  works  of  antiquity, 
which  have  stood  the  test  of  so  many  different  ages  and  coun- 
tries, or  those  works  among  the  moderns  which  have  the 
sanction  of  the  politer  part  of  our  contemporaries.  If,  upon 
the  perusal  of  such  writings,  he  does  not  find  himself  delighted 
in  an  extraordinary  manner,  or  if,  upon  reading  the  admired 
passages  in  such  authors,  he  finds  a  coldness  and  indifference 
in  his  thoughts,  he  ought  to  conclude,  not  (as  is  too  usual 
among  tasteless  readers)  that  the  author  wants  those  perfec- 
tions which  have  been  admired  in  him,  but  that  he  himself 
wants  the  faculty  of  discovering  them. 

He  should,  in  the  second  place,  be  very  careful  to  observe 
whether  he  tastes  the  distinguishing  perfections,  or,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  call  them  so,  the  specific  qualities  of  the  author 
whom  he  peruses ;  whether  he  is  particularly  pleased  with 
Livy  for  his  manner  of  telling  a  story,  with  Sallust  for  his 


THE  SPECTATOR  i6i 

entering  into  those  internal  principles  of  action  which  arise 
from  the  characters  and  manners  of  the  persons  he  describes, 
or  with  Tacitus  for  displaying  those  outward  motives  of  safety 
and  interest  which  give  birth  to  the  whole  series  of  trans- 
actions which  he  relates. 

He  may  likewise  consider  how  differently  he  is  affected  by 
the  same  thought  which  presents  itself  in  a  great  writer,  from 
what  he  is  when  he  finds  it  delivered  by  a  person  of  an  ordi- 
nary' genius  ;  for  there  is  as  much  difference  in  apprehending 
a  thought  clothed  in  Cicero's  language,  and  that  of  a  common 
author,  as  in  seeing  an  object  by  the  light  of  a  taper,  or  by 
the  light  of  the  sun. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  lay  down  rules  for  the  acquirement  of 
such  a  taste  as  that  I  am  here  speaking  of.  The  faculty  must, 
in  some  degree,  be  born  with  us ;  and  it  very  often  happens 
that  those  who  have  other  qualities  in  perfection  are  wholly 
void  of  this.  One  of  the  most  eminent  mathematicians  of  the 
age  has  assured  me  that  the  greatest  pleasure  he  took  in  read- 
ing Virgil  was  in  examining  /Eneas's  voyage  by  the  map  ;  as 
I  question  not  but  many  a  modern  compiler  of  history  would 
be  delighted  with  little  more  in  that  divine  author  than  the 
bare  matters  of  fact. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  faculty  must  in  some  measure  be 
born  with  us,  there  are  several  methods  for  cultivating  and 
improving  it,  and  without  which  it  will  be  very  uncertain,  and 
of  little  use  to  the  person  that  possesses  it.  The  most  natural 
method  for  this  purpose  is  to  be  conversant  among  the  writings 
of  the  most  polite  authors.  A  man  who  has  any  relish  for  fine 
wTiting  either  discovers  new  beauties,  or  receives  stronger  im- 
pressions, from  the  masterly  strokes  of  a  great  author,  every 
time  he  peruses  him ;  beside  that  he  naturally  wears  himself 
into  the  same  manner  of  speaking  and  thinking. 

Conversation  with  men  of  a  polite  genius  is  another  method 
for  improving  our  natural  taste.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  of 
the  greatest  parts  to  consider  anything  in  its  whole  extent,  and 
in  all  its  varict}'  of  lights.    Every  man,  beside  those  general 


l62  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

observations  which  are  to  be  made  upon  an  author,  forms 
several  reflections  that  are  pecuhar  to  his  own  manner  of  think- 
ing ;  so  that  conversation  will  naturally  furnish  us  with  hints 
which  we  did  not  attend  to,  and  make  us  enjoy  other  men's 
parts  and  reflections  as  well  as  our  own.  This  is  the  best 
reason  I  can  give  for  the  observation  which  several  have  made, 
that  men  of  great  genius  in  the  same  way  of  writing  seldom 
rise  up  singly,  but  at  certain  periods  of  time  appear  together, 
and  in  a  body  ;  as  they  did  at  Rome  in  the  reign  of  Augustus, 
and  in  Greece  about  the  age  of  Socrates.  I  cannot  think  that 
Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere,  Boileau,  La  Fontaine,  Bruyere, 
Bossu,  or  the  Daciers,  would  have  written  so  well  as  they 
have  done,  had  they  not  been  friends  and  contemporaries. 

It  is  likewise  necessary  for  a  man  who  would  form  to  him- 
self a  finished  taste  of  good  writing  to  be  well  versed  in  the 
works  of  the  best  critics,  both  ancient  and  modern.  I  must 
confess  that  I  could  wish  there  were  authors  of  this  kind,  who 
beside  the  mechanical  rules,  which  a  man  of  very  little  taste 
may  discourse  upon,  would  enter  into  the  very  spirit  and  soul 
of  fine  writing,  and  show  us  the  several  sources  of  that  pleas- 
ure which  rises  in  the  mind  upon  the  perusal  of  a  noble  work. 
Thus,  although  in  poetry  it  be  absolutely  necessary  that  the 
unities  of  time,  place,  and  action,  with  other  points  of  the 
same  nature,  should  be  thoroughly  explained  and  understood, 
there  is  still  something  more  essential  to  the  art,  something 
that  elevates  and  astonishes  the  fancy,  and  gives  a  greatness  of 
mind  to  the  reader,  which  few  of  the  critics  beside  Longinus 
have  considered. 

Our  general  taste  in  England  is  for  epigram,  turns  of  wit, 
and  forced  conceits,  which  have  no  manner  of  influence  either 
for  the  bettering  or  enlarging  the  mind  of  -him  who  reads 
them,  and  have  been  carefully  avoided  by  the  greatest  writers 
both  among  the  ancients  and  moderns.  I  have  endeavoured, 
in  several  of  my  speculations,  to  banish  this  Gothic  taste 
which  has  taken  possession  among  us.  I  entertained  the  town 
for    a    week    together    with    an    essay   upon    wit,    in   which    I 


THE  SPECTATOR  163 

endeavoured  to  detect  several  of  those  false  kinds  wliich  have 
been  admired  in  the  different  ages  of  the  world,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  show  wherein  the  nature  of  true  wit  consists.  I 
afterward  gave  an  instance  of  the  great  force  which  lies  in  a 
natural  simplicity  of  thought  to  affect  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
from  such  vulgar  pieces  as  have  little  else  beside  this  single 
qualification  to  recommend  them.  I  have  likewise  examined 
the  works  of  the  greatest  poet  which  our  nation,  or  perhaps 
any  other  has  produced,  and  particularized  most  of  those 
rational  and  manly  beauties  which  give  a  value  to  that  divine 
work.  I  shall  next  Saturday  enter  upon  an  essay  on  "  The 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,"  which,  though  it  shall  consider 
that  subject  at  large,  will  perhaps  suggest  to  the  reader  what 
it  is  that  gives  a  beauty  to  many  passages  of  the  finest  writers 
both  in  prose  and  verse.  As  an  undertaking  of  this  nature 
is  entirely  new,  I  question  not  but  it  will  be  received  with 
candour,    O    [Addison] 

ON  RAILLERY 

No.  422.    Friday,  July  4,  1712 

Haec  .  .   .  scripsi  .   .  .  non  otii  abundaiitia  scd  amoris 
erga  te.  —  Tull.  Epis. 

I  do  not  know  anything  which  gives  greater  disturbance  to 
conversation  than  the  false  notion  some  people  have  of  rail- 
lery. It  ought,  certainly,  to  be  the  first  point  to  be  aimed  at 
in  society,  to  gain  the  good-will  of  those  with  whom  you 
converse  ;  the  way  to  that  is  to  show  you  are  well  inclined 
toward  them.  What  then  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  set  up 
for  being  extremely  sharp  and  biting,  as  the  term  is,  in  your 
expressions  to  your  familiars }  A  man  who  has  no  good 
quality  but  courage  is  in  a  \ery  ill  way  toward  making  an 
agreeable  figure  in  the  world,  because  that  which  he  has  supe- 
rior to  other  people  cannot  be  exerted  without  raising  himself 
an  enemy.    Your  gentleman  of  a  satirical  vein  is  in  the  like 


1 64  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

condition.  To  say  a  thing  which  perplexes  the  heart  of  him 
you  speak  to,  or  brings  blushes  into  his  face,  is  a  degree  of 
murder  ;  and  it  is,  I  think,  an  unpardonable  offense  to  show 
a  man  you  do  not  care  whether  he  is  pleased  or  displeased. 
But  won't  you  then  take  a  jest  .>'  —  Yes  :  but  pray  let  it  be  a 
jest.  It  is  no  jest  to  put  me,  who  am  so  unhappy  as  to  have 
an  utter  aversion  to  speaking  to  more  than  one  man  at  a 
time,  under  a  necessity  to  explain  myself  in  much  company, 
and  reducing  me  to  shame  and  derision,  except  I  perform 
what  my  infirmity  of  silence  disables  me  to  do. 

Calisthenes  has  great  wit,  accompanied  with  that  quality 
without  which  a  man  can  have  no  wit  at  all  —  a  sound  judg- 
ment. This  gentleman  rallies  the  best  of  any  man  I  know  ; 
for  he  forms  his  ridicule  upon  a  circumstance  which  you  are, 
in  your  heart,  not  unwilling  to  grant  him  ;  to  wit,  that  you  are 
guilty  of  an  excess  in  something  which  is  in  itself  laudable. 
He  very  well  understands  what  you  would  be,  and  needs  not 
fear  your  anger  for  declaring  you  are  a  little  too  much  that 
thing.  The  generous  will  bear  being  reproached  as  lavish,  and 
the  valiant  rash,  without  being  provoked  to  resentment  against 
their  monitor.  What  has  been  said  to  be  a  mark  of  a  good 
writer  will  fall  in  with  the  character  of  a  good  companion. 
The  good  writer  makes  his  reader  better  pleased  with  himself, 
and  the  agreeable  man  makes  his  friends  enjoy  themselves, 
rather  than  him,  while  he  is  in  their  company.  Calisthenes 
does  this  with  inimitable  pleasantry.  He  whispered  a  friend 
the  other  day,  so  as  to  be  overheard  by  a  young  officer  who 
gave  symptoms  of  cocking  upon  the  company,  "That  gentle- 
man has  very  much  of  the  air  of  a  general  officer."  The  youth 
immediately  put  on  a  composed  behaviour,  and  behaved  himself 
suitably  to  the  conceptions  he  believed  the  company  had  of 
him.  It  is  to  be  allowed  that  Calisthenes  will  make  a  man 
run  into  impertinent  relations  to  his  own  advantage,  and  ex- 
press the  satisfaction  he  has  in  his  own  dear  self,  till  he  is 
very  ridiculous  ;  but  in  this  case  the  man  is  made  a  fool  by 
his  own  consent,  and  not  exposed  as  such  whether  he  will  or 


THE  SPECTATOR  165 

no.  I  take  it,  therefore,  that  to  make  raillery  agreeable,  a 
man  must  either  not  know  he  is  rallied,  or  think  never  the 
worse  of  himself  if  he  sees  he  is. 

Acetus  is  of  a  quite  contrary  genius,  and  is  more  generally 
admired  than  Calisthenes,  but  not  with  justice.  Acetus  has  no 
regard  to  the  modesty  or  weakness  of  the  person  he  rallies ; 
but  if  his  quality  or  humility  gives  him  any  superiority  to  the 
man  he  would  fall  upon,  he  has  no  mercy  in  making  the 
onset.  He  can  be  pleased  to  see  his  best  friend  out  of  coun- 
tenance, while  the  laugh  is  loud  in  his  own  applause.  His 
raillery  always  puts  the  company  into  little  divisions  and  sepa- 
rate interests,  while  that  of  Calisthenes  cements  it,  and  makes 
every  man  not  only  better  pleased  with  himself,  but  also  with 
all  the  rest  in  tlie  conversation. 

To  rally  well,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  kindness  must 
run  through  all  you  say ;  and  you  must  ever  preserve  the  char- 
acter of  a  friend  to  support  your  pretensions  to  be  free  with  a 
man.  Acetus  ought  to  be  banished  human  society,  because  he 
raises  his  mirth  upon  giving  pain  to  the  person  upon  whom  he 
is  pleasant.  Nothing  but  the  malevolence  which  is  too  general 
toward  those  who  excel  could  make  his  company  tolerated  ;  but 
they  with  whom  he  converses  are  sure  to  see  some  man  sacri- 
ficed wherever  he  is  admitted  ;  and  all  the  credit  he  has  for  wit, 
is  owing  to  the  gratification  it  gives  to  other  men's  ill-nature, 

Minutius  has  a  wit  that  conciliates  a  man's  love,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  is  exerted  against  his  faults.  He  has  an  art 
in  keeping  the  person  he  rallies  in  countenance,  by  insinuat- 
ing that  he  himself  is  guilty  of  the  same  imperfection.  This 
he  does  with  so  much  address  that  he  seems  rather  to  bewail 
himself,  than  fall  upon  his  friend. 

It  is  really  monstrous  to  see  how  unaccountably  it  prevails 
among  men  to  take  the  liberty  of  displeasing  each  other.  One 
would  think  sometimes  that  the  contention  is  who  shall  be 
most  disagreeable.  Allusions  to  past  follies,  hints  which  revive 
what  a  man  has  a  mind  to  forget  forever,  and  deserves  that 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  should,  are  commonly  brought  forth 


1 66  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

even  in  company  of  men  of  distinction.  They  do  not  thrust 
with  the  skill  of  fencers,  but  cut  up  with  the  barbarity  of 
butchers.  It  is,  methinks,  below  the  character  of  men  of 
humanity  and  good-manners  to  be  capable  of  mirth  while  there 
is  any  one  of  the  company  in  pain  and  disorder.  They  who 
have  the  true  taste  of  conversation  enjoy  themselves  in  a  com- 
munication of  each  other's  excellencies,  and  not  in  a  triumph 
over  their  imperfections.  Fortius  would  have  been  reckoned 
a  wit  if  there  had  never  been  a  fool  in  the  world  ;  he  wants 
not  foils  to  be  a  beauty,  but  has  that  natural  pleasure  in  ob- 
serving perfection  in  others,  that  his  own  faults  are  overlooked, 
out  of  gratitude,  by  all  his  acquaintance. 

After  these  several  characters  of  men  who  succeed  or  fail 
in  raillery,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  reflect  a  little  further  what 
one  takes  to  be  the  most  agreeable  kind  of  it ;  and  that  to 
me  appears  when  the  satire  is  directed  against  vice,  with  an 
air  of  contempt  of  the  fault,  but  no  ill-will  to  the  criminal. 
Mr.  Congreve's  Doris  is  a  masterpiece  in  this  kind.  It  is  the 
character  of  a  woman  utterly  abandoned  ;  but  her  impudence, 
by  the  finest  piece  of  raillery,  is  made  only  generosity  : 

Peculiar  therefore  is  her  way, 

Whether  by  nature  taught, 
I  shall  not  undertake  to  say, 

Or  by  experience  bought; 

But  who  o'ernight  obtain'd  her  grace 

She  can  next  day  disown, 
And  stare  upon  the  strange  man's  face, 

As  one  she  ne'er  had  known. 

So  well  she  can  the  truth  disguise, 

Such  artful  wonder  frame, 
The  lover  or  distrusts  his  eyes, 

Or  thinks  't  was  all  a  di'eam. 

Some  censure  this  as  lewd  or  low, 

Who  arc  to  bounty  blind ; 

But  to  forget  what  we  bestow 

r„  -,  Bespeaks  a  noble  mind.  T 

[Steele] 


i 


THE  SPECTATOR  167 

ON  GARDENS 

No.  477.    Saturday,  September  6,  1712 
An  Die  ludit  aniabilis 


Insaiiia  ?    And/re  et  videor pios 
Errare  per  lucos  amoence 

Quos  et  aqnce  subennt  et  aurce.  —  Hor. 

Sir, 

Having  lately  read  your  essay  on  "The  Pleasures  of  the  Im- 
agination," I  was  so  taken  with  your  thoughts  upon  some  of 
our  English  gardens  tliat  I  cannot  forbear  troubling  you  with 
a  letter  upon  that  subject.  I  am  one,  you  must  know,  who  am 
looked  upon  as  a  humorist  in  gardening,  I  have  several  acres 
about  my  house,  which  I  call  my  garden,  and  which  a  skillful 
gardener  would  not  know  what  to  call.  It  is  a  confusion  of 
kitchen  and  parterre,  orchard  and  flower  garden,  which  lie 
so  mixed  and  interwoven  with  one  another  that  if  a  foreigner 
who  had  seen  nothing  of  our  country  should  be  conveyed 
into  my  garden  at  his  first  landing,  he  would  look  upon  it  as 
a  natural  wilderness,  and  one  of  the  uncultivated  parts  of  our 
country.  My  flowers  grow  up  in  several  parts  of  the  garden 
in  the  greatest  luxuriancy  and  profusion.  I  am  so  far  from 
being  fond  of  any  particular  one,  by  reason  of  its  rarity,  that 
if  I  meet  with  any  one  in  a  field  which  pleases  me,  I  give  it 
a  place  in  my  garden.  By  this  means,  when  a  stranger  walks 
with  me,  he  is  surprised  to  see  several  large  spots  of  ground 
covered  with  ten  thousand  different  colours,  and  has  often 
singled  out  flowers  that  he  might  have  met  with  under  a 
common  hedge,  in  a  field,  or  in  a  meadow,  as  some  of  the 
greatest  beauties  of  the  place.  The  only  method  I  observe  in 
this  particular  is  to  range  in  the  same  quarter  the  products  of 
the  same  season,  that  they  may  make  their  appearance  to- 
gether, and  compose  a  picture  of  the  greatest  variety.  There 
is  the  same  irregularity  in  my  plantations,  which  run  into  as 
great  a  wildness  as  their  natures  will  permit.    I  take  in  none 


1 68  THE  ENGLISH  FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

that  do  not  naturally  rejoice  in  the  soil ;  and  am  pleased,  when 
I  am  walking  in  a  labyrinth  of  my  own  raising,  not  to  know 
whether  the  next  tree  I  shall  meet  with  is  an  apple  or  an  oak, 
an  elm  or  a  pear-tree.  My  kitchen  has  likewise  its  particular 
quarters  assigned  it ;  for  beside  the  wholesome  luxury  which 
that  place  abounds  with,  I  have  always  thought  a  kitchen- 
garden  a  more  pleasant  sight  than  the  finest  orangery,  or  arti- 
ficial green-house.  I  love  to  see  everything  in  its  perfection  ; 
and  am  more  pleased  to  survey  my  rows  of  coleworts  and 
cabbages,  with  a  thousand  nameless  pot-herbs,  springing  up  in 
their  full  fragrancy  and  verdure,  than  to  see  the  tender  plants 
of  foreign  countries  kept  alive  by  artificial  heats,  or  withering 
in  an  air  and  soil  that  are  not  adapted  to  them.  I  must  not 
omit  that  there  is  a  fountain  rising  in  the  upper  part  of  my 
garden,  which  forms  a  little  wandering  rill,  and  administers  to 
the  pleasure  as  well  as  the  plenty  of  the  place.  I  have  so  con- 
ducted it  that  it  visits  most  of  my  plantations  :  and  have  taken 
particular  care  to  let  it  run  in  the  same  manner  as  it  would  do 
in  an  open  field,  so  that  it  generally  passes  through  banks  of 
violets  and  primroses,  plats  of  willow,  or  other  plants,  that 
seem  to  be  of  its  own  producing.  There  is  another  circum- 
stance in  which  I  am  very  particular,  or,  as  my  neighbours  call 
me,  very  whimsical :  as  my  garden  invites  into  it  all  the  birds 
of  the  country,  by  offering  them  the  conveniency  of  springs 
and  shades,  solitude  and  shelter,  I  do  not  suffer  any  one  to 
destroy  their  nests  in  the  spring,  or  drive  them  from  their 
usual  haunts  in  fruit-time  ;  I  value  my  garden  more  for  being 
full  of  blackbirds  than  cherries,  and  very  frankly  give  them 
fruit  for  their  songs.  By  this  means,  I  have  always  the  music 
of  the  season  in  its  perfection,  and  am  highly  delighted  to  see 
the  jay  or  the  thrush  hopping  about  my  walks,  and  shooting 
before  my  eye  across  the  several  little  glades  and  alleys  that 
I  pass  through.  I  think  there  are  as  many  kinds  of  gardening 
as  of  poetry :  your  makers  of  parterres  and  flower-gardens  are 
epigrammatists  and  sonneteers  in  this  art ;  contrivers  of  bowers 
and  grottoes,  treillages  and  cascades,  are  romance  writers.  Wise 
and  London  are  our  heroic  poets ;   and  if,  as  a  critic,  I  may 


THE  SPECTATOR  169 

single  out  any  passage  of  their  works  to  commend,  I  shall 
take  notice  of  that  part  in  the  upper  garden  at  Kensington, 
which  was  at  first  nothing  but  a  gravel-pit.  It  must  have  been 
a  fine  genius  for  gardening  that  could  have  thought  of  form- 
ing such  an  unsightly  hollow  into  so  beautiful  an  area,  and  to 
have  hit  the  eye  with  so  uncommon  and  agreeable  a  scene  as 
that  which  it  is  now  wrought  into.  To  give  this  particular  spot 
of  ground  the  greater  effect,  they  have  made  a  very  pleasing 
contrast ;  for,  as  on  one  side  of  the  walk  you  see  this  hollow 
basin,  with  its  several  little  plantations,  lying  so  conveniently 
under  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  on  the  other  side  of  it  there 
appears  a  seeming  mount,  made  up  of  trees,  rising  one  higher 
than  another,  in  proportion  as  they  approach  the  center,  A  spec- 
tator, who  has  not  heard  this  account  of  it,  would  think  this 
circular  mount  was  not  only  a  real  one,  but  that  it  had  been 
actually  scooped  out  of  that  hollow  space  which  I  have  before 
mentioned.  I  never  yet  met  with  any  one  who  has  walked  in 
this  garden,  who  was  not  struck  with  that  part  of  it  which  I 
have  here  mentioned.  As  for  myself,  you  will  find,  by  the 
account  which  I  have  already  given  you,  that  my  compositions 
in  gardening  are  altogether  after  the  Pindaric  manner,  and 
run  into  the  beautiful  wildness  of  nature,  without  affecting  the 
nicer  elegances  of  art.  What  I  am  now  going  to  mention  will 
perhaps  deserve  your  attention  more  than  anything  I  have  yet 
said.  I  find  that,  in  the  discourse  which  I  spoke  of  at  the  be- 
ginning of  my  letter,  you  are  against  filling  an  English  garden 
with  evergreens  ;  and  indeed  I  am  so  far  of  your  opinion,  that 
I  can  by  no  means  think  the  verdure  of  an  evergreen  com- 
parable to  that  which  shoots  out  annually,  and  clothes  our 
trees  in  the  summer  season.  But  I  have  often  wondered  that 
those  who  are  like  myself,  and  love  to  live  in  gardens,  have 
never  thought  of  contriving  a  winter  garden,  which  should 
consist  of  such  trees  only  as  never  cast  their  leaves.  We  have 
very  often  little  snatches  of  sunshine  and  fair  weather  in  the 
most  uncomfortable  parts  of  the  year,  and  have  frequently  sev- 
eral days  in  November  and  January  that  are  as  agreeable  as 
any  in  the  finest  months.    At  such  times,  therefore,  I  think 


I70  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

there  could  not  be  a  greater  pleasure  than  to  walk  in  such  a 
winter  garden  as  I  have  proposed.    In  the  summer  season  the 
whole  country  blooms,  and  is  a  kind  of  garden  ;  for  which  reason 
we  are  not  so  sensible  of  those  beauties  that  at  this  time  may 
be  everywhere  met  with  ;  but  when  nature  is  in  her  desolation, 
and  presents  us  with  nothing  but  bleak  and  barren  prospects, 
there  is  something  unspeakably  cheerful  in  a  spot  of  ground 
which  is  covered  with  trees  that  smile  amidst  all  the  rigours  of 
winter,  and  give  us  a  view  of  the  most  gay  season  in  the  midst 
of  that  which  is  the  most  dead  and  melancholy.    I  have  so  far 
indulged  myself  in  this  thought  that  I  have  set  apart  a  whole 
acre  of  ground  for  the  executing  of  it.    The  walls  are  covered 
with  ivy  instead  of  vines.    The  laurel,  the  horn-beam,  and  the 
holly,  with  many  other  trees  and  plants  of  the  same  nature, 
grow  so  thick  in   it  that  you   cannot   imagine  a   more  lively 
scene.    The  glowing  redness  of  the  berries  with  which  they 
are  hung  at  this  time  vies  with  the  verdure  of  their  leaves, 
and  are  apt  to   inspire   the   heart  of  the  beholder  with  that 
vernal  delight  which  you  have  somewhere  taken  notice  of  in, 
your  former  papers.    It  is  very  pleasant,  at  the  same  time,  to 
see  the  several  kinds   of  birds  retiring  into  this  little  green 
spot,  and  enjoying  themselves  among  the  branches  and  foliage, 
when   my   great  garden,   which   I    have  before   mentioned   to 
you,  does  not  afford  a  single  leaf  for  their  shelter. 

You  must  know.  Sir,  that  I  look  upon  the  pleasure  which 
we  take  in  a  garden  as  one  of  the  most  innocent  delights  in 
human  life.  A  garden  was  the  habitation  of  our  first  parents 
before  the  fall.  It  is  naturally  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  calm, 
ness  and  tranquillity,  and  to  lay  all  its  turbulent  passions  at  rest. 
It  gives  us  a  great  insight  into  the  contrivance  and  wisdom  of 
Providence,  and  suggests  innumerable  subjects  for  meditation. 
I  cannot  but  think  the  very  complacency  and  satisfaction  which 
a  man  takes  in  these  works  of  nature  to  be  a  laudable,  if  not 
a  virtuous,  habit  of  mind.  F'or  all  which  reasons,  I  hope  you 
will  pardon  the  length  of  my  present  letter. 

I  am.  Sir,  etc. 

C    [Aduisux] 


THE  RAMBLER  (1750-1752) 
Samuel  Johnson  (1709-1784) 

THE  FOLLY  OF  ANTICIPATLXG  MISFORTUNES 

No.  29.    Tuesday,  June  26,  1750 

Prudeiis  futuri  temporis  exiticm 
Caliginosa  nocfe  premit  dens, 

Ridetque  si  mortalis  ultra 

Fas  trepidd .  —  HoR. 

There  is  nothing  recommended  with  greater  frequency 
among  the  gayer  poets  of  antiquity  than  tlie  secure  possession 
of  the  present  hour,  and  tlie  dismission  of  all  the  cares  which 
intrude  upon  our  quiet,  or  hinder,  by  importunate  perturba- 
tions, the  enjoyment  of  those  delights  which  our  condition 
happens  to  set  before  us. 

The  ancient  poets  are,  indeed,  by  no  means  unexception- 
able teachers  of  morality ;  their  precepts  are  to  be  always 
considereel  as  the  sallies  of  a  genius,  intent  rather  upon  giv- 
ing pleasure  than  instruction,  eager  to  take  every  advantage 
of  insinuation,  and,  provided  the  passions  can  be  engaged  on 
its  side,  very  little  solicitous  about  the  suffrage  of  reason. 

The  darkness  and  uncertainty  through  which  the  heathens 
were  compelled  to  wander  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness  may, 
indeed,  be  alleged  as  an  excuse  for  many  of  their  seducing 
invitations  to  immediate  enjoyment,  which  the  moderns,  by 
whom  they  have  been  imitated,  have  not  to  plead.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  such  as  had  no  promise  of  another  state  should 
eagerly  turn  their  thoughts  upon  the  improvement  of  that 
which  was  before  them  ;  but  surely  those  who  are  acquainted 
with  the  hopes  and  fears  of  eternity,  might  think  it  necessary 

171 


172  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

to  put  some  restraint  upon  their  imagination,  and  reflect  that 
by  echoing  the  songs  of  the  ancient  bacchanals,  and  trans- 
mitting the  maxims  of  past  debauchery,  they  not  only  prove 
that  they  want  invention,  but  virtue,  and  submit  to  the  servility 
of  imitation  only  to  copy  that  of  which  the  writer,  if  he  was 
to  live  now,  would  often  be  ashamed. 

Yet  as  the  errors  and  follies  of  a  great  genius  are  seldom 
without  some  radiations  of  understanding,  by  which  meaner 
minds  may  be  enlightened,  the  incitements  to  pleasure  are, 
in  those  authors,  generally  mingled  with  such  reflections  upon 
life  as  well  deserve  to  be  considered  distinctly  from  the  pur- 
poses for  which  they  are  produced,  and  to  be  treasured  up  as 
the  settled  conclusions  of  extensive  observation,  acute  sagacity, 
and  mature  experience. 

It  is  not  without  true  judgment,  that  on  these  occasions 
they  often  warn  their  readers  against  inquiries  into  futurity, 
and  solicitude  about  events  which  lie  hid  in  causes  yet  un- 
active,  and  which  time  has  not  brought  forward  into  the  view 
of  reason.  An  idle  and  thoughtless  resignation  to  chance, 
without  any  struggle  against  calamity,  or  endeavour  after  ad- 
vantage, is  indeed  below  the  dignity  of  a  reasonable  being, 
in  whose  power  Providence  has  put  a  great  part  even  of  his 
present  happiness ;  but  it  shows  an  equal  ignorance  of  our 
proper  sphere,  to  harass  our  thoughts  with  conjectures  about 
things  not  yet  in  being.  How  can  we  regulate  events  of 
which  we  yet  know  not  whether  they  will  ever  ha})pen  ?  And 
why  should  we  think,  with  painful  anxiety,  about  that  on  which 
our  thoughts  can  have  no  influence  .'' 

It  is  a  maxim  commonly  received,  that  a  wise  man  is  never 
surprised ;  and,  perhaps,  this  exemption  from  astonishment 
may  be  imagined  to  proceed  from  such  a  prospect  into  futu- 
rity, as  gave  previous  intimation  of  those  evils  which  often  fall 
unexpected  upon  others  that  have  less  foresight.  But  the  truth 
is,  that  things  to  come,  except  when  they  approach  very  nearly, 
are  equally  hidden  from  men  of  all  degrees  of  understanding ; 
and  if  a  wise  man  is  not  amazed  at  sudden  occurrences,  it  is 


THE  RAMBLER  1 73 

not  that  he  has  thought  more,  but  less  upon  futurity.  He  never 
considered  things  not  yet  existing  as  the  proper  objects  of  his 
attention  ;  he  never  indulged  dreams  till  he  was  deceived  by 
their  piiantoms,  nor  ever  realized  nonentities  to  his  mind.  He 
is  not  surprised  because  he  is  not  disappointed,  and  he  escapes 
disappointment  because  he  never  forms  any  expectations. 

The  concern  about  things  to  come,  that  is  so  justly  cen- 
sured, is  not  the  result  of  those  general  reflections  on  the  vari- 
ableness of  fortune,  the  uncertainty  of  life,  and  the  universal 
insecurity  of  all  human  acquisitions,  which  must  always  be 
suggested  by  the  view  of  the  world  ;  but  such  a  desponding 
anticipation  of  misfortune,  as  fixes  the  mind  upon  scenes  of 
gloom  and  melancholy,  and  makes  fear  predominate  in  every 
imagination. 

Anxiety  of  this  kind  is  nearly  of  the  same  nature  with  jeal- 
ousy in  love,  and  suspicion  in  the  general  commerce  of  life  ; 
a  temper  which  keeps  the  man  always  in  alarms,  disposes  him 
to  judge  of  every  thing  in  a  manner  that  least  favours  his  own 
quiet,  fills  him  with  perpetual  stratagems  of  counteraction,  wears 
him  out  in  schemes  to  obviate  evils  which  never  threatened  him, 
and  at  length,  perhaps,  contributes  to  the  production  of  those 
mischiefs  of  which  it  had  raised  such  dreadful  apprehensions. 

It  has  been  usual  in  all  ages  for  moralists  to  repress  the 
swellings  of  vain  hope,  by  representations  of  the  innumerable 
casualties  to  which  life  is  subject,  and  by  instances  of  the 
unexpected  defeat  of  the  wisest  schemes  of  policy,  and  sudden 
subversions  of  the  highest  eminences  of  greatness.  It  has, 
perhaps,  not  been  equally  observed,  that  all  these  examples 
afford  the  proper  antidote  to  fear  as  well  as  to  hope,  and  may 
be  applied  with  no  less  efficacy  as  consolations  to  the  timorous, 
than  as  restraints  to  the  proud. 

\\\\\  is  uncertain  in  the  same  degree  as  good,  and  for  the 
reason  that  we  ouglit  not  to  hope  too  securely,  we  ought  not 
to  fear  with  too  much  dejection.  The  state  of  the  world  is 
continually  changing,  and  none  can  tell  the  result  of  the  next 
vicissitude.    Whatever  is  afloat  in  the  stream  of   time,   may. 


174  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

when  it  is  very  near  us,  be  driven  away  by  an  accidental  blast, 
which  shall  happen  to  cross  the  general  course  of  the  current. 
The  sudden  accidents  by  which  the  powerful  are  depressed 
may  fall  upon  those  whose  malice  we  fear ;  and  the  greatness 
by  which  we  expect  to  be  overborne  may  become  another 
proof  of  the  false  flatteries  of  fortune.  Our  enemies  may  be- 
come weak,  or  we  grow  strong  before  our  encounter,  or  we 
may  advance  against  each  other  without  ever  meeting.  There 
are,  indeed,  natural  evils  which  we  can  flatter  ourselves  with 
no  hopes  of  escaping,  and  with  little  of  delaying  ;  but  of  the 
ills  which  are  apprehended  from  human  malignity,  or  the 
opposition  of  rival  interests,  we  may  always  alleviate  the  terror 
by  considering  that  our  persecutors  are  weak  and  ignorant, 
and  mortal  like  ourselves. 

The  misfortunes  which  arise  from  the  concurrence  of  un- 
happy incidents  should  never  be  suffered  to  disturb  us  before 
they  happen  ;  because,  if  the  breast  be  once  laid  open  to  the 
dread  of  mere  possibilities  of  misery,  life  must  be  given  a 
prey  to  dismal  solicitude,  and  quiet  must  be  lost  forever. 

It  is  remarked  by  old  Cornaro  that  it  is  absurd  to  be  afraid 
of  the  natural  dissolution  of  the  body,  because  it  must  cer- 
tainly happen,  and  can,  by  no  caution  or  artifice,  be  avoided. 
Whether  this  sentiment  be  entirely  just,  I  shall  not  examine  ; 
but  certainly  if  it  be  improper  to  fear  events  which  must 
happen,  it  is  yet  more  evidently  contrary  to  right  reason  to 
fear  those  which  may  never  happen,  and  which,  if  they  should 
come  upon  us,  we  cannot  resist. 

As  we  ought  not  to  give  way  to  fear,  any  more  than  indul- 
gence to  hope,  because  the  objects  both  of  fear  and  hope  are 
yet  uncertain,  so  we  ought  not  to  trust  the  representations  of 
one  more  than  of  the  other,  because  they  are  both  equally  fal- 
lacious ;  as  hope  enlarges  happiness,  fear  aggravates  calamity. 
It  is  generally  allowed,  that  no  man  ever  found  the  happiness 
of  possession  proportionate  to  that  expectation  which  incited 
his  desire,  and  invigorated  his  pursuit ;  nor  has  any  man  found 
the  evils  of  life  so  formidable  in  reality  as  they  were  described 


THE  RAMBLER  175 

to  him  by  his  own  imagination ;  every  species  of  distress 
brings  with  it  some  peculiar  supports,  some  unforeseen  means 
of  resisting,  or  power  of  enduring.  Taylor  justly  blames  some 
pious  persons,  who  indulge  their  fancies  too  much,  set  them- 
selves, by  the  force  of  imagination,  in  the  place  of  the  ancient 
martyrs  and  confessors,  and  question  the  validity  of  their 
own  faith  because  they  shrink  at  the  thoughts  of  flames  and 
tortures.  "  It  is,"  says  he,  "  sufficient  that  you  are  able  to 
encounter  the  temptations  which  now  assault  you  ;  when  God 
sends  trials,  he  may  send  strength." 

All  fear  is  in  itself  painful ;  and  when  it  conduces  not  to 
safety  is  painful  without  use.  Every  consideration,  therefore, 
by  which  groundless  terrors  may  be  removed,  adds  something 
to  human  happiness.  It  is  likewise  not  unworthy  of  remark, 
that  in  proportion  as  our  cares  are  employed  upon  the  future 
they  are  abstracted  from  the  present,  from  the  only  time  which 
we  can  call  our  own,  and  of  which  if  we  neglect  the  apparent 
duties,  to  make  provision  against  visionary  attacks,  we  shall 
certainly  counteract  our  own  purpose  ;  for  he,  doubtless,  mis- 
takes his  true  interest,  who  thinks  that  he  can  increase  his 
safety  when  he  impairs  his  virtue. 

THE  MISERY  OF  A  FASHIONABLE  LADY  IN 
THE  COUNTRY 

No.  42.    Saturday,  August  ir,  1750 

Mihi  tarda  Jilt  It  lit  iiigratatjite  tcmpora.  —  HoR. 

To  THE  Rambler 
Mr.  Rambler, 

I  am  no  great  admirer  of  grave  writings,  and  therefore 
very  frequently  lay  your  papers  aside  before  I  have  read  them 
through ;  yet  I  cannot  but  confess  that,  by  slow  degrees,  you 
have  raised  my  opinion  of  your  understanding,  and  that,  though 
I  believe  it  will  be  long  before  I  can  be  prevailed  upon  to  re- 
gard you  with  much  kindness,  you  have,  however,  more  of  my 


176  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

esteem  than  those  whom  I  sometimes  make  happy  with  oppor- 
tunities to  fill  my  tea-pot,  or  pick  up  my  fan.  I  shall  therefore 
choose  you  for  the  confident  of  my  distresses,  and  ask  your 
counsel  with  regard  to  the  means  of  conquering  or  escaping 
them,  though  I  never  expect  from  you  any  of  that  softness  and 
pliancy  which  constitutes  the  perfection  of  a  companion  for 
the  ladies  :  as,  in  the  place  where  I  now  am,  I  have  recourse 
to  the  mastiff  for  protection,  though  I  have  no  intention  of 
making  him  a  lapdog. 

My  mamma  is  a  very  fine  lady,  who  has  more  numerous  and 
more  frequent  assemblies  at  our  house  than  any  other  person 
in  the  same  quarter  of  the  town.  I  was  bred  from  my  earliest 
infancy  to  a  perpetual  tumult  (jf  pleasure,  and  remember  to 
have  heard  of  little  else  than  messages,  visits,  playhouses,  and 
balls ;  of  the  awkwardness  of  one  woman,  and  the  coquetry  of 
another ;  the  charming  convenience  of  some  rising  fashion,  the 
difficulty  of  playing  a  new  game,  the  incidents  of  a  masquer- 
ade, and  the  dresses  of  a  court-night.  I  knew  before  I  was 
ten  years  old  all  the  rules  of  paying  and  receiving  visits,  and 
to  how  much  civility  every  one  of  my  acquaintance  was  entitled  : 
and  was  able  to  return,  with  the  proper  degree  of  reserve  or 
vivacity,  the  stated  and  established  answer  to  every  compliment ; 
so  that  I  was  very  soon  celebrated  as  a  wit  and  a  beauty,  and 
had  heard  before  I  was  thirteen  all  that  is  ever  said  to  a  young 
lady.  My  mother  was  generous  to  so  uncommon  a  degree  as 
to  be  pleased  with  my  advance  into  life,  and  allowed  me,  with- 
out envy  or  reproof,  to  enjoy  the  same  happiness  with  herself; 
though  most  women  about  her  own  age  were  very  angry  to 
see  young  girls  so  forward,  and  many  fine  gentlemen  told  her 
how  cruel  it  was  to  throw  new  claims  upon  mankind,  and  to 
tyrannize  over  them  at  the  same  time  with  her  own  charms 
and  those  of  her  daughter. 

I  have  now  lived  two-and-twenty  years,  and  have  passed  of 
each  year  nine  months  in  town,  and  three  at  Richmond  ;  so 
that  my  time  has  been  spent  uniformly  hi  the  same  company 
and  the  same  amusements,  except  as  fashion  has  introduced 


THE  RAMBLER 


// 


new  diversions,  or  the  revolutions  of  the  gay  world  have  af- 
forded new  successions  of  wits  and  beaux.  However,  my  mother 
is  so  good  an  economist  of  pleasure  that  I  have  no  spare  hours 
upon  my  hands ;  for  every  morning  brings  some  new  appoint- 
ment, and  every  night  is  hurried  away  by  the  necessity  of  mak- 
ing our  appearance  at  different  places,  and  of  being  with  one 
lady  at  the  opera,  and  with  another  at  the  card-table. 

When  the  time  came  of  settling  our  scheme  of  felicity  for 
the  summer,  it  was  determined  that  I  should  pay  a  visit  to  a 
rich  aunt  in  a  remote  county.  As  you  know,  the  chief  conver- 
sation of  all  tea-tables,  in  the  spring,  arises  from  a  communi- 
cation of  the  manner  in  which  time  is  to  be  passed  till  winter, 
it  was  a  great  relief  to  the  barrenness  of  our  topics  to  relate 
the  pleasures  that  were  in  store  for  me,  to  describe  my  uncle's 
seat,  with  the  park  and  gardens,  the  charming  walks  and  beau- 
tiful waterfalls  ;  and  everyone  told  me  how  much  she  envied 
me,  and  what  satisfaction  she  had  once  enjoyed  in  a  situation 
of  the  same  kind. 

As  we  are  all  credulous  in  our  own  favour,  and  willing  to 
imagine  some  latent  satisfaction  in  any  thing  which  we  have 
not  experienced,  I  will  confess  to  you,  without  restraint,  that 
I  had  suffered  my  head  to  be  filled  with  expectations  of  some 
nameless  pleasure  in  a  rural  life,  and  that  I  hoped  for  the 
happy  hour  that  should  set  me  free  from  noise,  and  flutter, 
and  ceremony,  dismiss  me  to  the  peaceful  shade,  and  lull  me 
in  content  and  tranquillity.  To  solace  myself  under  the  misery 
of  delay,  I  sometimes  heard  a  studious  lady  of  my  acquaintance 
read  pastorals,  I  was  delighted  with  scarce  any  talk  but  of 
leaving  the  town,  and  never  went  to  bed  without  dreaming  of 
groves,  and  meadows,  and  frisking  lambs. 

At  length  I  had  all  my  clothes  in  a  trunk,  and  saw  the  coach 
at  the  door ;  I  sprung  in  with  ecstasy,  quarreled  with  my  maid 
for  being  too  long  in  taking  leave  of  the  other  servants,  and 
rejoiced  as  the  ground  grew  less  which  lay  between  me  and  the 
completion  of  my  wishes.  A  few  days  brought  me  to  a  large 
old  house,  encompassed  on  three  sides  with  woody  hills,  and 


178  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

looking  from  the  front  on  a  gentle  river,  the  sight  of  which 
renewed  all  my  expectations  of  pleasure,  and  gave  me  some 
regret  for  having  lived  so  long  without  the  enjoyment  which 
these  delightful  scenes  were  now  to  afford  me.  My  aunt  came 
out  to  receive  me,  but  in  a  dress  so  far  removed  from  the  pres- 
ent fashion  that  I  could  scarcely  look  upon  her  without  laughter, 
which  would  have  been  no  kind  requital  for  the  trouble  which 
she  had  taken  to  make  herself  fine  against  my  arrival.  The 
night  and  the  next  morning  were  driven  along  with  inquiries 
about  our  family  ;  m}^  aunt  then  explained  our  pedigree,  and 
told  me  stories  of  my  great  grandfather's  bravery  in  the  civil 
wars ;  nor  was  it  less  than  three  days  before  I  could  persuade 
her  to  leave  me  to  myself. 

At  last  economy  prevailed  ;  she  went  in  the  usual  manner 
about  her  own  affairs,  and  I  was  at  liberty  to  range  in  the  wil- 
derness, and  sit  by  the  cascade.  The  novelty  of  the  objects 
about  me  pleased  me  for  a  while,  but  after  a  few  days  they 
were  new  no  longer,  and  I  soon  began  to  perceive  that  the 
country  was  not  my  element ;  that  shades,  and  flowers,  and 
lawns,  and  waters  had  very  soon  exhausted  all  their  power  of 
pleasing,  and  that  I  had  not  in  myself  any  fund  of  satisfaction 
with  which  I  could  supply  the  loss  of  my  customary  amusements. 

I  unhappily  told  my  aunt,  in  the  first  warmth  of  our  em- 
braces, that  I  had  leave  to  stay  with  her  ten  weeks.  Six  only 
are  yet  gone,  and  how  shall  I  live  through  the  remaining  four  ? 
I  go  out  and  return  ;  I  pluck  a  flower,  and  throw  it  away ;  I 
catch  an  insect,  and  when  I  have  examined  its  colours,  set  it  at 
liberty ;  I  fling  a  pebble  into  the  water,  and  see  one  circle  spread 
after  another.  When  it  chances  to  rain  I  walk  in  the  great  hall, 
and  watch  the  minute-hand  upon  the  dial,  or  play  with  a  litter  of 
kittens  which  the  cat  happens  to  have  brought  in  a  lucky  time. 

My  aunt  is  afraid  I  shall  grow  melancholy,  and  therefore 
encourages  the  neighbouring  gentry  to  visit  us.  They  came  at 
first  with  great  eagerness  to  see  the  fine  lady  from  London, 
but  when  we  met  we  had  no  common  topic  on  which  we  could 
converse ;  they  had  no  curiosity  after  plays,  operas,  or  music ; 


THE  RAMBLER  179 

and  I  find  as  little  satisfaction  from  their  accounts  of  the  quar- 
rels or  alliances  of  families,  whose  names,  when  once  I  can 
escape,  I  shall  never  hear.  The  women  have  now  seen  me, 
know  how  my  gown  is  made,  and  are  satisfied;  the  men  are 
generally  afraid  of  me,  and  say  little,  because  they  think  them- 
selves not  at  liberty  to  talk  rudely. 

Thus  am  I  condemned  to  solitude  ;  the  day  moves  slowly 
forward,  and  I  see  the  dawn  with  uneasiness,  because  I  con- 
sider that  night  is  at  a  great  distance.  I  have  tried  to  sleep 
by  a  brook,  but  find  its  murmurs  ineffectual  ;  so  that  I  am 
forced  to  be  awake  at  least  twelve  hours,  without  visits,  without 
cards,  without  laughter,  and  without  flattery.  I  walk  because  I 
am  disgusted  with  sitting  still,  and  sit  down  because  I  am  weary 
with  walking.  I  have  no  motive  to  action,  nor  any  object  of 
love,  or  hate,  or  fear,  or  inclination.  I  cannot  dress  with  spirit, 
for  I  have  neither  rival  nor  admirer.  I  cannot  dance  without 
a  partner,  nor  be  kind,  or  cruel,  without  a  lover. 

Such  is  the  life  of  Euphelia,  and  such  it  is  likely  to  continue 
for  a  month  to  come.  I  have  not  yet  declared  against  existence, 
nor  called  upon  the  destinies  to  cut  my  thread  ;  but  I  have  sin- 
cerely resolved  not  to  condemn  myself  to  such  another  summer, 
nor  too  hastily  to  flatter  myself  with  happiness.  Yet  I  have 
heard,  Mr.  Rambler,  of  those  who  never  thought  themselves 
so  much  at  ease  as  in  solitude,  and  cannot  but  suspect  it  to  be 
some  way  or  other  my  own  fault,  that,  without  great  pain,  either 
of  mind  or  body,  I  am  thus  weary  of  myself  :  that  the  current 
of  youth  stagnates,  and  that  I  am  languishing  in  a  dead  calm 
for  want  of  some  external  impulse.  I  shall  therefore  think  you 
a  benefactor  to  our  sex,  if  you  will  teach  me  the  art  of  living 
alone;  for  I  am  confident  that  a  thousand  and  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  ladies,  who  affect  to  talk  with  ecstasies  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  country,  are,  in  reality,  like  me,  longing  for 
the  winter,  and  washing  to  be  delivered  from  themselves  by 
company  and  diversion, 

I  am,  Sir,  yours, 

Euphelia. 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  (1760-1761) 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (17 28-1 7 74) 

THE  CHINESE  PHILOSOPHER  IN   ENGLAND 

Letter  I 

To  Mr.  *  *  *  *^  A'Tcirhanf  in  Loudon 

Amsterdam 
Sir, 

Yours  of  the  1 3th  instant,  covering  two  bills,  one  on  Messrs. 
R.  and  D.,  value  ^{^478, 10^-.,  and  the  other  on  Mr.  *  *  *  *, 
value  ^285,  duly  came  to  hand,  the  former  of  which  met  with 
honour,  but  the  other  has  been  trifled  with,  and  I  am  afraid 
will  be  returned  protested. 

The  bearer  of  this  is  my  friend,  therefore  let  him  be  yours. 
He  is  a  native  of  Honan  in  China,  and  one  who  did  me  signal 
services  when  he  was  a  mandarine,  and  I  a  factor  at  Canton. 
By  frequently  conversing  with  the  English  there,  he  has  learned 
the  language,  though  he  is  entirely  a  stranger  to  their  manners 
and  customs.  I  am  told  he  is  a  philosopher,  I  am  sure  he  is 
an  honest  man  ;  that  to  you  will  be  his  best  recommendation, 
next  to  the  consideration  of  his  being  the  friend  of.  Sir, 

Yours,  &c. 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND 

Letter  II 

Lond.    From  Lien  C/ii  Altangi  to  '*   '*  '*  *,  AfarJianf  in  Amsterdam 

Friend  of  my  Heart, 

May  the  wings  of  peace  rest  upon  thy  dwelling,  and  the 
shield  of  conscience  preserve  thee  from  vice  and  misery  :   for 

180 


THE  CITIZEN  OE  THE   WO  KID  i8l 

all  thy  favours  accept  my  gratitude  and  esteem,  the  only  trib- 
utes a  poor  philosophic  wanderer  can  return  ;  sure  fortune  is 
resolved  to  make  me  unhappy,  when  she  gives  others  a  power 
of  testifying  their  friendship  by  actions,  and  leaves  me  only 
words  to  express  the  sincerity  of  mine. 

I  am  perfectly  sensible  of  the  delicacy  with  which  you  en- 
deavour to  lessen  your  own  merit  and  my  obligations.  By  call- 
ing your  late  instances  of  friendship  only  a  return  for  former 
favours,  you  would  induce  me  to  impute  to  your  justice  what  I 
owe  to  your  generosity. 

The  services  I  did  you  at  Canton,  justice,  humanity,  and  my 
office  bade  me  perform  ;  those  you  have  done  me  since  my 
arrival  at  Amsterdam,  no  laws  obliged  you  to,  no  justice  re- 
quired, even  half  your  favours  would  have  been  greater  than 
my  most  sanguine  expectations. 

The  sum  of  money  therefore  which  you  privately  conveyed 
into  my  baggage,  when  I  was  leaving  Holland,  and  which  I 
was  ignorant  of  till  my  arrival  in  Tondon,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
return.  You  have  been  bred  a  merchant,  and  I  a  scholar  ;  you 
consequently  love  money  better  than  I.  You  can  find  pleasure 
in  superfluity,  I  am  perfectly  content  with  what  is  sufficient ; 
take  therefore  what  is  yours,  it  may  give  you  some  pleasure, 
even  though  you  have  no  occasion  to  use  it ;  my  happiness  it 
cannot  improve,  for  I  have  already  all  that  I  want. 

My  passage  by  sea  from  Rotterdam  to  England  was  more 
painful  to  me  than  all  the  journies  I  ever  made  on  land.  I  have 
traversed  the  immeasurable  wilds  of  Mogul  Tartary ;  felt  all  the 
rigours  of  Siberian  skies  ;  I  have  had  my  repose  an  hundred 
times  disturbed  by  invading  savages,  and  have  seen  without 
shrinking  the  desert  sands  rise  like  a  troubled  ocean  all  around 
me ;  against  these  calamities  I  was  armed  with  resolution  ;  but 
in  my  passage  to  England,  though  nothing  occurred  that  gave 
the  mariners  any  uneasiness,  to  one  who  was  never  at  sea  be- 
fore, all  was  a  subject  of  astonishment  and  terror.  To  find  the 
land  disappear,  to  see  our  ship  mount  the  waves  swift  as  an 
arrow  from  the  Tartar  bow,  to  hear  the  wind  bowline:  throujrh 


182  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

the  cordage,  to  feel  a  sickness  which  depresses  even  the  spirits  of 
the  brave ;  these  were  unexpected  distresses,  and  consequently 
assaulted  me  unprepared  to  receive  them. 

You  men  of  Europe  think  nothing  of  a  voyage  by  sea.  With 
us  of  China,  a  man  who  has  been  from  sight  of  land  is  regarded 
upon  his  return  with  admiration.  I  have  known  some  provinces 
where  there  is  not  even  a  name  for  the  ocean.  What  a  strange 
people  therefore  am  I  got  amongst,  who  have  founded  an 
empire  on  this  unstable  element,  who  build  cities  upon  billows 
that  rise  higher  than  the  mountains  of  Tipartala,  and  make 
the  deep  more  formidable  than  the  wildest  tempest. 

Such  accounts  as  these,  I  must  confess,  were  my  first  motives 
for  seeing  England.  These  induced  me  to  undertake  a  journey 
of  seven  hundred  painful  days,  in  order  to  examine  its  opu- 
lence, buildings,  arts,  sciences,  and  manufactures  on  the  spot. 
Judge  then  my  disappointment  on  entering  London,  to  see  no 
signs  of  that  opulence  so  much  talked  of  abroad  ;  wherever  I 
turn,  I  am  presented  with  a  gloomy  .solemnity  in  the  houses, 
the  streets,  and  the  inhabitants  ;  none  of  that  beautiful  gilding 
which  makes  a  principal  ornament  in  Chinese  architecture.  The 
streets  of  Nankin  are  sometimes  strewed  with  gold  leaf ;  very 
different  are  those  of  London  :  in  the  midst  of  their  pavements, 
a  great  lazy  puddle  moves  muddily  along  ;  heavy  laden  machines 
with  wheels  of  unwieldy  thickness  crowd  up  every  passage  ;  so 
that  a  stranger,  instead  of  finding  time  for  observation,  is  often 
happy  if  he  has  time  to  escape  from  being  crushed  to  pieces. 

The  houses  borrow  very  few  ornaments  from  architecture ; 
their  chief  decoration  seems  to  be  a  paltry  piece  of  painting, 
hung  out  at  their  doors  or  windows,  at  once  a  proof  of  their 
indigence  and  vanity.  Their  vanity,  in  each  having  one  of  those 
pictures  exposed  to  public  view ;  and  their  indigence,  in  being 
unable  to  get  them  better  painted.  In  this  respect,  the  fancy  of 
their  painters  is  also  deplorable.  Could  you  believe  it  ?  I  have 
seen  five  black  lions  and  three  blue  boars  in  less  than  the  circuit 
of  half  a  mile ;  and  yet  you  know  that  animals  of  these  colours  are 
no  where  to  be  found  except  in  the  wild  imaginations  of  Europe. 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE   WORLD  183 

From  these  eircumstances  in  their  buildings,  and  from  the 
dismal  looks  of  the  inhabitants,  I  am  induced  to  conclude  that 
the  nation  is  actually  poor ;  and  that  like  the  Persians,  they 
make  a  splendid  figure  every  where  but  at  home.  The  proverb 
of  Xixofou  is,  that  a  man's  riches  may  be  seen  in  his  eyes ; 
if  we  judge  of  the  English  by  this  rule,  there  is  not  a  poorer 
nation  under  the  sun. 

I  have  been  here  but  two  days,  so  will  not  be  hasty  in  my 
decisions  ;  such  letters  as  I  shall  write  to  Fipsihi  in  Moscow, 
I  beg  you  '11  endeavour  to  forward  with  all  diligence  ;  I  shall 
send  them  open,  in  order  that  you  may  take  copies  or  trans- 
lations, as  you  are  equally  versed  in  the  Dutch  and  Chinese 
languages.  Dear  friend,  think  of  my  absence  with  regret,  as 
I  sincerely  regret  yours ;  even  while  I  write,  I  lament  our 
separation.    Farewell. 

NATIONAL  CHARACTERISTICS 

Letter  IV 

From  Lien  Chi  Altatigi,  to  tJie  care  of  Fipsihi,  resident  in  Moscoiv  ;  to 

be  forT.varded  by  the  Russian  caravan  to  Funi  Hoam,  first  President 

of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin  in  China 

The  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese,  yet  vainer  than 
the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon  my  arrival  I  attributed  that 
reserve  to  modesty,  which  I  now  find  has  its  origin  in  pride. 
Condescend  to  address  them  first,  and  you  are  sure  of  their 
acquaintance  ;  stoop  to  flatter)^,  and  you  conciliate  their  friend- 
ship and  esteem.  They  bear  hunger,  cold,  fatigue,  and  all  the 
miseries  of  life  without  shrinking ;  danger  only  calls  forth  their 
fortitude ;  they  even  exult  in  calamity  ;  but  contempt  is  what 
they  cannot  bear.  An  Englishman  fears  contempt  more  than 
death;  he -often  flies  to  death  as  a  refuge  from  its  pressure; 
and  dies  when  he  fancies  the  world  has  ceased  to  esteem  him. 

Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their  national  vices,  but 
of  their  national  virtues  also.    An   Englishman   is  taught  to 


1 84  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

love  his  king  as  his  friend,  but  to  acknowledge  no  other  master 
than  the  laws  which  himself  has  contributed  to  enact.  He 
despises  those  nations,  who,  that  one  may  be  free,  are  all  con- 
tent to  be  slaves ;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant  into  terror,  and  then 
shrink  under  his  power  as  if  delegated  from  heaven.  Liberty 
is  echoed  in  all  their  assemblies,  and  thousands  might  be  found 
ready  to  offer  up  their  lives  for  the  sound,  though  perhaps  not 
one  of  all  the  number  understands  its  meaning.  The  lowest 
mechanic  however  looks  upon  it  as  his  duty  to  be  a  watchful 
guardian  of  his  country's  freedom,  and  often  uses  a  language 
that  might  seem  haughty,  even  in  the  mouth  of  the  great 
emperor  who  traces   his   ancestry  to  the   moon. 

A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their  prisons,  I  could 
not  avoid  stopping,  in  order  to  listen  to  a  dialogue  which  I 
thought  might  afford  me  some  entertainment.  The  conversa- 
tion was  carried  on  between  a  debtor  through  the  grate  of  his 
prison,  a  porter,  who  had  stopped  to  rest  his  burden,  and  a 
soldier  at  the  window.  The  subject  was  upon  a  threatened 
invasion  from  France,  and  each  seemed  extremely  anxious 
to  rescue  his  country  from  the  impending  danger,  ' '  For  my 
part,"  cries  the  prisoner,  "the  greatest  of  my  apprehensions  is 
for  our  freedom  ;  if  the  French  should  conquer,  what  would 
become  of  English  liberty  ?  My  dear  friends,  liberty  is  the 
Englishman's  prerogative  ;  we  must  preserve  that  at  the  ex- 
pense of  our  lives,  of  that  the  French  shall  never  deprive  us ; 
it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  men  who  are  slaves  themselves 
would  preserve  our  freedom  should  they  happen  to  conquer," 
"Ay,  slaves,"  cries  the  porter,  "they  are  all  slaves,  fit  only 
to  carry  burdens  every  one  of  them.  Before  I  would  stoop  to 
slavery,  may  this  be  my  poison  (and  he  held  the  goblet  in  his 
hand)  may  this  be  my  poison  —  but  I  would  sooner  list  for 
a   soldier," 

The  soldier  taking  the  goblet  from  his  friend,  with  much 
awe  fervently  cried  out,  "It  is  not  so  much  our  liberties  as 
our  religion  that  would  suffer  by  such  a  change.  Ay,  our  re- 
ligion, my  lads.    May  the  Devil  sink  me  into  flames  (such  was 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE   WO  RID  185 

the  solemnity  of  his  adjuration),  if  the  French  should  come  over, 
but  our  religion  would  be  utterly  undone."  So  saying,  instead 
of  a  libation,  he  applied  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  and  confirmed 
his  sentiments  with  a  ceremony  of  the  most  persevering 
devotion. 

In  short,  every  man  here  pretends  to  be  a  politician  ;  even 
the  fair  sex  are  sometimes  found  to  mix  the  severity  of  national 
altercation  with  the  blandishments  of  love,  and  often  become 
conquerors  by  more  weapons  of  destruction  than  their  eyes. 

This  universal  passion  for  politics  is  gratified  by  Daily 
Gazettes,  as  with  us  at  China.  But,  as  in  ours  the  emperor 
endeavours  to  instruct  his  people,  in  theirs  the  people  endeav- 
our to  instruct  the  administration.  You  must  not,  however, 
imagine  that  they  who  compile  these  papers  have  any  actual 
knowledge  of  the  politics,  or  the  government  of  a  state ;  they 
only  collect  their  materials  from  the  oracle  of  some  coffee-house, 
which  oracle  has  himself  gathered  them  the  night  before  from 
a  beau  at  a  gaming-table,  who  has  pillaged  his  knowledge 
from  a  great  man's  porter,  who  has  had  his  information  from 
the  great  man's  gentleman,  who  has  invented  the  whole  story 
for  his  own  amusement  the  night  preceding. 

The  English  in  general  seem  fonder  of  gaining  the  esteem 
than  the  love  of  those  they  converse  with  :  this  gives  a  for- 
mality to  their  amusements ;  their  gayest  conversations  have 
something  too  wise  for  innocent  relaxation  ;  though  in  com- 
pany you  are  seldom  disgusted  with  the  absurdity  of  a  fool, 
you  are  seldom  lifted  into  rapture  by  those  strokes  of  vivacity 
which  give  instant,  though  not  permanent  pleasure. 

What  they  want,  however,  in  gaiety,  they  make  up  in  polite- 
ness. You  smile  at  hearing  me  praise  the  English  for  their 
politeness  :  you  who  have  heard  very  different  accounts  from 
the  missionaries  at  Pekin,  who  have  seen  such  a  different  be- 
haviour in  their  merchants  and  seamen  at  home.  But  I  must 
still  repeat  it,  the  English  seem  more  polite  than  any  of  their 
neighbours  ;  their  great  art  in  this  respect  lies  in  endeavouring, 
while  they  oblige,  to  lessen  the  force  of  the  favour.    Other 


186  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

countries  are  fond  of  obliging  a  stranger ;  but  seem  desirous 
that  he  should  be  sensible  of  the  obligation.  The  PInglish 
confer  their  kindness  with  an  appearance  of  indifference,  and 
give  away  benefits  with  an  air  as  if  they  despised  them. 

Walking  a  few  days  ago  between  an  English  and  French- 
man into  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  heavy 
shower  of  rain.  I  was  unprepared  ;  but  they  had  each  large 
coats,  which  defended  them  from  what  seemed  to  me  a  per- 
fect inundation.  The  Englishman  seeing  me  shrink  from  the 
weather,  accosted  me  thus  :  "  Psha,  man,  what  dost  shrink 
at  ?  Here,  take  this  coat  ;  I  don't  want  it ;  I  find  it  no  way 
useful  to  me  ;  I  had  as  lief  be  without  it."  The  Frenchman 
began  to  shew  his  politeness  in  turn.  "  My  dear  friend,"  cries 
he,  "why  won't  you  oblige  me  by  making  use  of  my  coat; 
you  see  how  well  it  defends  me  from  the  rain  ;  I  should  not 
choose  to  part  with  it  to  others,  but  to  such  a  friend  as  you, 
I  could  even  part  with  my  skin  to  do  him  service." 

From  such  minute  instances  as  these,  most  reverend  Fum 
Hoam,  I  am  sensible  your  sagacity  will  collect  instruction. 
The  volume  of  nature  is  the  book  of  knowledge  ;  and  he 
becomes  most  wise  who  makes  the  most  judicious  selection. 
Farewell. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  BEAU  TIBBS 

Letter  LIV 

I^rom  Lien  Chi  Alton gi,  to  Finn  Hoam,  first  President  of  the  Cere- 
monial Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China 

Though  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay  company, 
and  take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dismissing  the  mind  from 
duty.  FVom  this  motive  I  am  often  found  in  the  centre  of  a 
crowd  ;  and  wherever  pleasure  is  to  be  sold,  am  always  a  pur- 
chaser. In  those  places,  without  being  remarked  by  any,  I 
join  in  whatever  goes  forward,  work  my  passions  into  a  simili- 
tude of  frivolous  earnestness,  shout  as  they  shout,  and  condemn 


THE  CITIZEN  OE  THE  WORLD  187 

as  they  happen  to  disapprove.  A  mind  thus  sunk  for  a  while 
below  its  natural  standard  is  qualified  for  stronger  flights,  as 
those  first  retire  who  would  spring  forward  with  greater  vigour. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  my  friend  and  I 
lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one  of  the  public 
walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered  together  for  some 
time,  either  praising  the  beauty  of  such  as  were  handsome,  or  ■ 
the  dresses  of  such  as  had  nothing  else  to  recommend  them. 
We  had  gone  thus  deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when 
stopping  on  a  sudden,  my  friend  caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and 
led  me  out  of  the  public  walk ;  I  could  perceive  by  the  quick- 
ness of  his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently  looking  behind,  that  he 
was  attempting  to  avoid  somebody  who  followed  ;  we  now  turned 
to  the  right,  then  to  the  left ;  as  we  went  forward  he  still 
went  faster,  but  in  vain  ;  the  person  whom  he  attempted  to 
escape  hunted  us  through  every  doubling,  and  gained  upon 
us  each  moment ;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood  still,  resolving 
to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with  all  the  famil- 
iarity of  an  old  acquaintance.  "  My  dear  Drybone,"  cries  he, 
shaking  my  friend's  hand,  "where  have  you  been  hiding  this 
half  a  century  .?  Positively  I  had  fancied  you  were  gone  down 
to  cultivate  matrimony  and  your  estate  in  the  country."  During 
the  reply,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  appearance  of 
our  new  companion  ;  his  hat  was  pinched  up  with  peculiar 
smartness ;  his  looks  were  pale,  thin,  and  sharp ;  round  his  neck 
he  wore  a  broad  black  ribbon,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  studded 
with  glass  ;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished  twist ;  he  wore 
by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black  hilt,  and  his  stockings  of  silk, 
though  newly  washed,  were  grown  yellow  by  long  service.  I  was 
so  much  engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress  that  I  at- 
tended only  to  the  latter  part  of  my  friend's  reply,  in  which  he 
complimented  Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste  of  his  clothes,  and  the 
bloom  in  his  countenance  :  "  Psha,  psha,  Will,"  cried  the  fig- 
ure, "  no  more  of  that  if  you  love  me,  you  know  I  hate  flattery, 
on  my  soul  I  do ;  and  yet  to  be  sure  an  intimacy  with  the  great 


1 88  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

will  improve  one's  appearance,  and  a  course  of  venison  will 
fatten  ;  and  yet  faith  I  despise  the  great  as  much  as  you  do  ; 
but  there  are  a  great  many  damn'd  honest  fellows  among  them ; 
and  we  must  not  quarrel  with  one  half,  because  the  other  wants 
weeding.  If  they  were  all  such  as  my  Lord  Muddler,  one  of 
the  most  good-natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a  lemon,  I 
should  myself  be  among  the  number  of  their  admirers.  I  was 
yesterday  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's,  my  lord  was 
there.  '  Ned,'  says  he  to  me,  '  Ned,'  says  he,  '  I  '11  hold  gold  to 
silver  I  can  tell  where  you  were  poaching  last  night.'  *  Poach- 
ing, my  lord,'  says  I;  'faith  you  have  missed  already;  for  I 
staid  at  home,  and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That 's  my 
way ;  I  take  a  fine  woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey ; 
stand  still,  and  swoop,   they  fall  into  my  mouth.'  " 

"Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  an  happy  fellow,"  cried  my  companion, 
with  looks  of  infinite  pity,  "  I  hope  your  fortune  is  as  much 
improved  as  your  understanding  in  such  company.?"  "Im- 
proved," replied  the  other;  "You  shall  know,  —  but  let  it  go 
no  further,  —  a  great  secret  —  five  hundred  a  year  to  begin 
with.  —  My  lord's  word  of  honour  for  it — His  lordship  took 
me  down  in  his  own  chariot  yesterday,  and  we  had  a  tete-a-tete 
dinner  in  the  country;  where  we  talked  of  nothing  else."  "  I 
fancy  you  forget,  sir,"  cried  I,  "you  told  us  but  this  moment 
of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town  !  "  "  Did  I  say  so,"  replied 
he  coolly,  "to  be  sure  if  I  said  so  it  was  so  —  dined  in  town  ; 
egad  now  I  do  remember,  I  did  dine  in  town  ;  but  I  dined  in 
the  country  too  ;  for  you  must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  din- 
ners. By  the  bye,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my  eat- 
ing. I  '11  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that:  We  were  a  select 
party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram's,  an  affected  piece,  but 
let  it  go  no  further ;  a  secret :  well,  there  happened  to  be  no 
asafoetida  in  the  sauce  to  a  turkey,  upon  which,  says  I,  I  '11 
hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and  say  done  first,  that  —  But,  dear 
Drybone,  you  are  an  honest  creature,  lend  me  half-a-crown  for 
a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till  —  But  hearkee,  ask  me  for  it 
the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it  may  be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget 
to  pay  you." 


THE   CITIZEN  OF  THE   WORLD  I  89 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned  upon  so 
extraordinary  a  character.  "  His  very  dress,"  cries  my  friend, 
"  is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  conduct.  If  you  meet  him 
this  day  you  find  him  in  rags,  if  the  next  in  embroidery.  With 
those  persons  of  distinction,  of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly, 
he  has  scarcely  a  coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both 
for  the  interests  of  society,  and  perhaps  for  his  own,  heaven 
has  made  him  poor,  and  while  all  the  world  perceive  his  wants, 
he  fancies  them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An  agreeable  com- 
panion because  he  understands  flattery,  and  all  must  be  pleased 
with  the  first  part  of  his  conversation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its 
ending  with  a  demand  on  their  purse.  While  his  youth  counte- 
nances the  levity  of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious 
subsistence,  but  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is  in- 
compatible with  buffoonery,  then  -will  he  find  himself  forsaken 
by  all.  Condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang  upon  some 
rich  family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to  undergo  all  the 
ingenuity  of  studied  contempt,  to  be  employed  only  as  a  spy 
upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to  frighten  the  children  into 
obedience."    Adieu. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF   EEAU  TIBBS  (Continued) 

Letter  LV 

To  the  same 

I  am  apt  to  fancy  I  have  contracted  a  new  acquaintance  whom 
it  will  be  no  easy  matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau  yesterday 
overtook  me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping  mc 
on  the  shoulder,  saluted  mc  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect 
familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual,  except  that  he 
had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  a  pair  of 
temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  an  harmless  amusing  little  thing,  I 
could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree  of  severity ;  so  we 
walked  forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  discussed  all  the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular 
conversation. 


I90  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however,  soon  began 
to  appear ;  he  bowed  to  several  well-dressed  persons,  who,  by 
their  manner  of  returning  the  compliment,  appeared  perfect 
strangers.  At  intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book,  seeming  to 
take  memorandums  before  all  the  company,  with  much  im- 
portance and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me  through 
the  length  of  the  whole  walk,  fretting  at  his  absurdities,  and 
fancying  myself  laughed  at  not  less  than  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession,  "Blast  me," 
cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  "I  never  saw  the  park  so  thin 
in  my  life  before  ;  there  's  no  company  at  all  to-day.  Not  a 
single  face  to  be  seen."  "  No  company,"  interrupted  I  pee- 
vishly ;  "no  company  where  there  is  such  a  crowd  ;  why  man, 
there  's  too  much.  What  are  the  thousands  that  have  been 
laughing  at  us  but  company  !  "  "  Lard,  my  dear,"  returned  he, 
with  the  utmost  good-humour,  "you  seem  immensely  chagrined; 
but  blast  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at  all  the 
world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip,  Bill  Squash  the 
Creolian,  and  I,  sometimes  make  a  party  at  being  ridiculous  ; 
and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thousand  things  for  the  joke  sake. 
But  I  see  you  are  grave,  and  if  you  are  for  a  fine  grave  senti- 
mental companion,  you  shall  dine  with  me  and  my  wife  to-day, 
I  must  insist  on  't ;  I  '11  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady 
of  as  elegant  qualifications  as  any  in  nature ;  she  was  bred,  but 
that 's  between  ourselves,  under  the  inspection  of  the  Countess 
of  All-night.  A  charming  body  of  voice,  but  no  more  of  that, 
she  will  give  us  a  song.  You  shall  see  my  little  girl  too,  Caro- 
lina Wilhelma  Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  creature ;  I  design 
her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son,  but  that 's  in  friend- 
ship, let  it  go  no  further  ;  she  's  but  six  years  old,  and  yet  she 
walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar  immensely  already.  I 
intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as  .possible  in  every  accomplish- 
ment. In  the  first  place  I  '11  make  her  a  scholar  ;  I  '11  teach 
her  Greek  myself,  and  learn  that  language  purposely  to  instruct 
her ;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took  me  by  the 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  191 

arm,  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed  through  many  dark 
alleys  and  winding  ways  ;  for,  from  some  motives  to  me  un- 
known, he  seemed  to  have  a  particular  aversion  to  every  fre- 
quented street ;  at  last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal 
looking  house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  informed 
me ,  he  chose  to  reside  for  the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  ever  seemed  to  lie  most 
hospitably  open  ;  and  I  began  to  ascend  an  old  and  creaking 
stair-case,  when,  as  he  mounted  to  show  me  the  way,  he  de- 
manded, whether  I  delighted  in  prospects,  to  which  answering 
in  the  affirmative,  "  Then,"  says  he,  "  I  shall  shov/  you  one  of 
the  most  charming  in  the  world  out  of  my  windows  ;  we  shall 
see  the  ships  sailing,  and  the  wdiole  country  for  twenty  miles 
round,  tip  top,  quite  high.  My  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten 
thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one ;  but  as  I  sometimes  pleasantly 
tell  him,  I  always  love  to  keep  my  prospects  at  home,  that  my 
friends  may  see  me  the  oftener." 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would 
permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney ;  and  knocking 
at  the  door,  a  voice  from  within  demanded,  who  's  there .-'  My 
conductor  answered  that  it  w-as  him.  But  this  not  satisfying 
the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand  :  to  which  he 
answered  louder  than  before  ;  and  now  the  door  was  opened 
by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with 
great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where 
was  her  lady  .''  '"  Good  troth,"  replied  she,  in  a  peculiar  dialect, 
"  she  's  washing  your  two  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they 
have  taken  an  oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any  longer." 
"  My  two  shirts,"  cries  he  in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  confu- 
sion, "what  does  the  idiot  mean  !  "  ''I  ken  what  I  mean  well 
enough,"  replied  the  other,  "  she  's  washing  your  twa  shirts  at 

the  next  door,  because "  "  Fire  and  fury,  no  more  of  thy 

stupid  explanations,"  cried  he,  —  "Go  and  inform  her  we  have 
got  company.    Were  that  Scotch  hag  to  be  for  ever  in  the 


192  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

family,  she  would  never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd 
poisonous  accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of 
breeding  or  high  life  ;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising  too,  as  I 
had  her  from  a  parliament-man,  a  friend  of  mine,  from  the 
highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the  world  ;  but  that 's 
a  secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs's  arrival,  during  which 
interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  surveying  the  chamber  and 
all  its  furniture  ;  which  consisted  of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought 
bottoms,  that  he  assured  me  were  his  wife's  embroidery;  a  square 
table  that  had  been  once  japanned,  a  cradle  in  one  corner,  a 
lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other ;  a  broken  shepherdess,  and  a 
mandarine  without  a  head  were  stuck  over  the  chimney ;  and 
round  the  walls  several  paltry,  unframed  pictures,  which  he  ob- 
served were  all  his  own  drawing  :  "  What  do  you  think,  sir,  of 
that  head  in  a  corner,  done  in  the  manner  of  Grisoni  ?  There  's 
the  true  keeping  in  it ;  it 's  my  own  face,  and  though  there 
happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  countess  offered  me  an  hundred 
for  its  fellow ;  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  it,  that  would  be 
mechanical,  you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance,  at  once  a  slattern  and 
a  coquette  ;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carrying  the  remains  of 
beauty.  She  made  twenty  apologies  for  being  seen  in  such 
odious  dishabille,  but  hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  staid 
out  all  night  at  the  gardens  with  the  countess,  who  was  exces- 
sively fond  of  the  "horns."  "And,  indeed,  my  dear,"  added 
she,  turning  to  her  husband,  "  his  lordship  drank  your  health 
in  a  bumper,"  "Poor  Jack,"  cries  he,  "a  dear  good-natured 
creature,  I  know  he  loves  me ;  but  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have 
given  orders  for  dinner ;  you  need  make  no  great  preparations 
neither,  there  are  but  three  of  us,  something  elegant,  and  little 

will  do;   a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a  "  "Or  what  do  you 

think,  my  dear,"  interrupts  the  wife,  "of  a  nice  pretty  bit  of 
ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed  with  a  little  of  my  own  sauce 

"  "The  very  thing,"  replies  he,   "it  will  eat  best  with 

some  smart  bottled  beer ;   but  be  sure  to  let 's  have  the  sauce 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORID  193 

his  grace  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of  meat, 
that  is  country  all  over ;  extreme  disgusting  to  those  who  are 
in  the  least  acquainted  with  high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my  appetite  to 
increase ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but 
at  last  never  fails  of  rendering  us  melancholy ;  I  therefore  pre- 
tended to  recollect  a  prior  engagement,  and  after  having  shown 
my  respect  to  the  house,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  Eng- 
lish, by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at  the  door, 
I  took  my  leave  ;  Mr.  Tibbs  assuring  me  that  dinner,  if  I  staid, 
would  be  ready  at  least  in  less  than  two  hours. 

A  VISIT  TO  A  LONDON  SILK  MERCHANT 

Letter  LXXVII 

From  Lien  Chi  Alfangi,  to  Fiim  Hoam,  first  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy^  at  Fekin,  in  China 

The  shops  of  London  are  as  well  furnished  as  those  of 
Pekin.  Those  of  London  have  a  picture  hung  at  their  door, 
informing  the  passengers  what  they  have  to  sell,  as  those  at 
Pekin  have  a  board  to  assure  the  buyer  that  they  have  no 
intentions  to  cheat  him. 

I  was  this  morning  to  buy  silk  for  a  night-cap  ;  immediately 
upon  entering  the  mercer's  shop,  the  master  and  his  two  men, 
with  wigs  plastered  with  powder,  appeared  to  ask  my  commands. 
They  were  certainly  the  civilest  people  alive ;  if  I  but  looked, 
they  flew  to  the  place  where  I  cast  my  eye  ;  every  motion  of 
mine  sent  them  running  round  the  whole  shop  for  my  satis- 
faction. I  informed  them  that  I  wanted  what  was  good,  and 
they  showed  me  not  less  than  forty  pieces,  and  each  was  better 
than  the  former ;  the  prettiest  pattern  in  nature,  and  the  fit- 
test in  the  world  for  night-caps.  "  My  very  good  friend,"  said 
I  to  the  mercer,  "  you  must  not  pretend  to  instruct  me  in  silks, 
I  know  these  in  particular  to  be  no  better  than  your  mere 
flimsy  Bungees."     "  That  may  be,"  cried  the  mercer,  who  I 


194  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

afterwards  found  had  never  contradicted  a  man  in  his  hfe, 
"'  I  can't  pretend  to  say  but  they  may  ;  but  I  can  assure  you, 
my  Lady  Trail  has  had  a  sacque  from  this  piece  this  very 
morning."  "  But  friend,"  said  I,  "  though  my  lady  has  chosen 
a  sacque  from  it,  I  see  no  necessity  that  I  should  wear.it  for 
a  night-cap."  "That  may  be,"  returned  he  again,  "yet  what 
becomes  a  pretty  lady,  will  at  any  time  loolc  well  on  a  hand- 
some gentleman."  This  short  compliment  was  thrown  in  so 
very  seasonably  upon  my  ugly  face,  that  even  though  I  disliked 
the  silk,  I  desired  him  to  cut  me  off  the  pattern  of  a  night-cap. 

While  this  business  was  consigned  to  his  journeyman,  the 
master  himself  took  down  some  pieces  of  silk  still  finer  than 
any  I  had  yet  seen,  and  spreading  them  before  me,  "  There," 
cries  he,  "  there  's  beauty,  my  Lord  Snakeskin  has  bespoke  the 
fellow  to  this  for  the  birth-night  this  very  morning  ;  it  would 
look  charmingly  in  waistcoats."  "  But  I  don't  want  a  waist- 
coat," replied  L  "  Not  want  a  waistcoat,"  returned  the  mercer, 
"then  I  would  advise  you  to  buy  one;  when  waistcoats  are 
wanted,  you  may  depend  upon  it  they  will  come  dear.  Always 
buy  before  you  want,  and  you  are  sure  to  be  well  used,  as  they 
say  in  Cheapside."  There  was  so  much  justice  in  his  advice, 
that  I  could  not  refuse  taking  it ;  besides,  the  silk,  which  was 
really  a  good  one,  increased  the  temptation,  so  I  gave  orders 
for  that  too. 

As  I  was  waiting  to  have  my  bargains  measured  and  cut, 
which,  I  know  not  how,  they  executed  but  slowly ;  during  the 
interval,  the  mercer  entertained  me  with  the  modern  manner 
of  some  of  the  nobility  receiving  company  in  their  morning 
gowns.  "Perhaps,  sir,"  adds  he,  "you  have  a  mind  to  see 
what  kind  of  silk  is  universally  worn."  Without  waiting  for 
my  reply,  he  spreads  a  piece  before  me,  which  might  be  reck- 
oned beautiful  even  in  China.  "  If  the  nobility,"  continues  he, 
"  were  to  know  I  sold  this  to  any  under  a  Right  Honourable, 
I  should  certainly  lose  their  custom  ;  you  see,  my  Lord,  it  is 
at  once  rich,  tasty,  and  quite  the  thing."  "  I  am  no  Lord," 
interrupted  I.  —  "I  beg  pardon,"  cried  he,  "but  be  pleased 


THE  CITIZEN  OE  THE  WO  RID  195 

to  remember,  when  you  intend  buying  a  morning  gown,  that 
you  had  an  offer  from  me  of  something  worth  money.  Con- 
science, sir,  conscience  is  my  way  of  dealing ;  you  may  buy 
a  morning  gown  now,  or  you  may  stay  till  they  become  dearer 
and  less  fashionable,  but  it  is  not  my  business  to  advise."  In 
short,  most  reverend  Fum,  he  persuaded  me  to  buy  a  morning 
gown  also,  and  would  probably  have  persuaded  me  to  have 
bought  half  the  goods  in  his  shop,  if  I  had  stayed  long  enough, 
or  was  furnished  with  sufficient  money. 

Upon  returning  home,  I  could  not  help  reflecting  with  some 
astonishment,  how  this  very  man  with  such  a  confined  educa- 
tion and  capacity,  was  yet  capable  of  turning  me  as  he  thought 
proper,  and  moulding  me  to  his  inclinations  !  I  knew  he  was 
only  answering  his  own  purposes,  even  while  he  attempted  to 
appear  solicitous  about  mine  ;  yet  by  a  voluntary  infatuation, 
a  sort  of  passion  compounded  of  vanity  and  good  nature,  I 
walked  into  the  snare  with  my  eyes  open,  and  put  myself  to 
future  pain  in  order  to  give  him  immediate  pleasure.  The  wis- 
dom of  the  ignorant  somewhat  resembles  the  instinct  of  ani- 
mals ;  it  is  diffused  in  but  a  very  narrow  sphere,  but  within 
that  circle  it  acts  with  vigour,  uniformity,  and  success.    Adieu. 


CHARLES   LAMB  (1775-1834) 

A  BACHELOR'S  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF 
MARRIED   PEOPLE 

/vil/lc'c/or  No.  4,  i8ii-i8t2;  London  iMa<j;azij!c,  September,  1822 

As  a  single  man,  I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of  my  time  in 
noting  down  the  infirmities  of  Married  People,  to  console 
myself  for  those  superior  pleasures,  which  they  tell  me  I  have 
lost  by  remaining  as  I  am. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  quarrels  of  men  and  their  wives  ever 
made  any  great  impression  upon  me,  or  had  much  tendency  to 
strengthen  me  in  those  anti-social  resolutions,  which  I  took  up 
long  ago  upon  more  substantial  considerations.  What  oftenest 
offends  me  at  the  houses  of  married  persons  where  I  visit,  is 
an  error  of  quite  a  different  description  ;  —  it  is  that  they  are 
too  loving. 

Not  too  loving  neither :  that  does  not  explain  my  meaning. 
Besides,  why  should  that  offend  me  .?  The  very  act  of  sepa- 
rating themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  have  the  fuller 
enjoyment  of  each  other's  society,  implies  that  they  prefer  one 
another  to  all  the  world. 

]^ut  what  I  complain  of  is  that  they  carry  this  preference 
so  undisguisedly,  they  perk  it  up  in  the  faces  of  us  single 
people  so  shamelessly,  you  cannot  be  in  their  company  a  mo- 
ment without  being  made  to  feel,  by  some  indirect  hint  or  open 
avowal,  that  yoii  are  not  the  object  of  this  preference.  Now 
there  are  some  things  which  give  no  offence,  while  implied  or 
taken  for  granted  merely ;  but  expressed,  there  is  much  offence 
in  them.  If  a  man  were  to  accost  the  first  homely-featured  or 
plain-dressed  young  woman  of  his  acquaintance,  and  tell  her 
bluntlv,  that  she  was  not  handsome  or  rich  enough  for  him, 

196 


CHARLES  LAMB  197 

and  he  could  not  marry  her,  he  would  deserve  to  be  kicked  for 
his  ill  manners  ;  yet  no  less  is  implied  in  the  fact  that  having 
access  and  opportunity  of  putting  the  question  to  her,  he  has 
never  yet  thought  fit  to  do  it.  The  young  woman  understands 
this  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  put  into  words  ;  but  no  reasonable 
young  woman  would  think  of  making  this  a  ground  of  a  cjuar- 
rel.  Just  as  little  right  have  a  married  couple  to  tell  me  by 
speeches  and  looks  that  are  scarce  less  plain  than  speeches,  that 
I  am  not  the  happy  man,  —  the  lady's  choice.  It  is  enough 
that  I  know  that  I  am  not :  I  do  not  want  this  perpetual 
reminding. 

The  display  of  superior  knowledge  or  riches  may  be  made 
sufficiently  mortifying ;  but  these  admit  of  a  palliative.  The 
knowledge  which  is  brought  out  to  insult  me  may  accidentally 
improve  me  ;  and  in  the  rich  man's  houses  and  pictures,  his 
parks  and  gardens,  I  have  a  temporary  usufruct  at  least.  But 
the  display  of  married  happiness  has  none  of  these  palliatives  : 
it  is  throughout  pure,  unrecompensed,  unqualified  insult. 

Marriage  by  its  best  title  is  a  monopoly,  and  not  of  the  least 
invidious  sort.  It  is  the  cunning  of  most  possessors  of  any 
exclusive  privilege  to  keep  their  advantage  as  much  out  of  sight 
as  possible,  that  their  less  favoured  neighbours,  seeing  little  of 
the  benefit,  may  the  less  be  disposed  to  question  the  right. 
But  these  married  monopolists  thrust  the  most  obnoxious  part 
of  their  patent  into  our  faces. 

Nothing  is  to  me  more  distasteful  than  that  entire  compla- 
cency and  satisfaction  which  beam  in  the  countenances  of  a 
new-married  couple,  —  in  that  of  the  lady  particularly  :  it  tells 
you  that  her  lot  is  disposed  of  in  this  world ;  that  yoii  can 
have  no  hopes  of  her.  It  is  true,  I  have  none ;  nor  wishes 
either,  perhaps  :  but  this  is  one  of  those  truths  which  ought, 
as  I  said  before,  to  be  taken  for  granted,  not  expressed. 

The  excessive  airs  which  those  people  give  themselves, 
founded  on  the  ignorance  of  us  unmarried  people,  would  be 
more  offensive  if  they  were  less  irrational.  We  will  allow  them 
to  understand  the  mysteries  belonging  to  their  own  craft  better 


iqS  the  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

than  we  who  have  not  had  the  happiness  to  be  made  free  of 
the  company :  but  their  arrogance  is  not  content  within  these 
limits.  If  a  single  person  presume  to  offer  his  opinion  in  their 
presence,  though  upon  the  most  indifferent  subject,  he  is  im- 
mediately silenced  as  an  incompetent  person.  Nay,  a  young 
married  lady  of  my  acquaintance  who,  the  best  of  the  jest  was, 
had  not  changed  her  c'ondition  above  a  fortnight  before,  in 
a  question  on  which  I  had  the  misfortune  to  differ  from  her, 
respecting  the  properest  mode  of  breeding  oysters  for  the 
London  market,  had  the  assurance  to  ask  with  a  sneer,  how 
such  an  old  Bachelor  as  I  could  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  such  matters. 

But  what  I  have  spoken  of  hitherto  is  nothing  to  the  airs 
which  these  creatures  give  themselves  when  they  come,  as 
they  generally  do,  to  h^ve  children.  When  I  consider  how 
little  of  a  rarity  children  are,  —  tliat  every  street  and  blind 
alley  swarms  with  them,  —  that  the  poorest  people  commonly 
have  them  in  most  abundance,  —  that  there  are  few  marriages 
that  are  not  blest  with  at  least  one  of  these  bargains,  —  how 
often  they  turn  out  ill,  and  defeat  the  fond  hopes  of  their 
parents,  taking  to  vicious  courses,  which  end  in  poverty,  dis- 
grace, the  gallows,  &c.  —  I  cannot  for  my  life  tell  what  cause 
for  pride  there  can  possibly  be  in  having  them.  If  they 
were  young  phoenixes,  indeed,  that  were  born  but  one  in 
a  year,  there  might  be  a  pretext.  But  when  they  are  so 
common 

I  do  not  advert  to  the  insolent  merit  which  they  assume 
with  their  husbands  on  these  occasions.  Let  them  look  to 
that.  But  why  7Uf,  who  are  not  their  natural-born  subjects, 
should  be  expected  to  bring  our  spices,  myrrh,  and  incense, 
—  our  tribute  and  homage  of  admiration,  —  I  do  not  see. 

"  Like  as  the  arrows  in  the  hand  of  the  giant,  even  so 
are  the  young  children  :  "  so  says  the  excellent  office  in  our 
Prayer-book  appointed  for  the  churching  of  women.  "  Happy 
is  the  man  that  hath  his  quiver  full  of  them."  So  say  I  ; 
but  then  don't  let  him  discharge  his  quiver  upon  us  that  are 


CHARLES  LAMB  199 

weaponless  ;  —  let  them  be  arrows,  but  not  to  c^all  and  stick 
us.  I  have  generally  observed  that  these  arrows  are  double- 
headed  :  they  have  two  forks,  to  be  sure  to  hit  with  one  or 
the  other.  As  for  instance,  where  you  come  into  a  house 
which  is  full  of  children,  if  you  happen  to  take  no  notice  of 
them  (you  are  thinking  of  something  else,  perhaps,  and  turn 
a  deaf  ear  to  their  innocent  caresses),  you  are  set  down  as 
untractable,  morose,  a  hater  of  children.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  you  find  them  more  than  usually  engaging,  —  if  you  are 
taken  with  their  pretty  manners,  and  set  about  in  earnest  to 
romp  and  play  with  them,  some  pretext  or  other  is  sure  to  be 
found  for  sending  them  out  of  the  room  :  they  are  too  noisy 

or  boisterous,  or  Mr. does  not  like  children.   With  one 

or  other  of  these  forks  the  arrow  is  sure  to  hit  you. 

I  could  forgive  their  jealousy,  and  dispense  with  toying 
with  their  brats,  if  it  gives  them  any  pain  ;  but  I  think  it 
unreasonable  to  be  called  upon  to  love  them,  where  I  see  no 
occasion,  —  to  love  a  whole  family,  perhaps,  eight,  nine,  or 
ten,  indiscriminately,  —  to  love  all  the  pretty  dears,  because 
children  are  so  engaging. 

I  know  there  is  a  proverb,  "  Love  me,  love  my  dog :  "  that 
is  not  always  so  very  practicable,  particularly  if  the  dog  be  set 
upon  you  to  tease  you  or  snap  at  you  in  sport.  But  a  dog, 
or  a  lesser  thing,  —  any  inanimate  substance,  as  a  keepsake, 
a  watch  or  a  ring,  a  tree,  or  the  place  where  we  last  parted 
when  my  friend  went  away  upon  a  long  absence,  I  can  make 
shift  to  love,  because  I  love  him,  and  anything  that  reminds 
me  of  him  ;  provided  it  be  in  its  nature  indifferent,  and  apt 
to  receive  whatever  hue  fancy  can  give  it.  But  children  have 
a  real  character  and  an  essential  being  of  themselves  :  they 
are  amiable  or  unamiable  per  se ;  I  must  love  or  hate  them  as 
I  see  cause  for  either  in  their  qualities.  A  child's  nature  is 
too  serious  a  thing  to  admit  of  its  being  regarded  as  a  mere 
appendage  to  another  being,  and  to  be  loved  or  hated  accord- 
ingly :  they  stand  with  me  upon  their  own  stock,  as  much  as 
men  and  women  do.    O !  but  you  will  say,  sure  it  is  an  attractive 


200  THE  ENGLISH  FAAHLIAR  ESSAY 

age,  —  there  is  something  in  the  tender  years  of  infancy  that 
of  itself  charms  us.  That  is  the  very  reason  why  I  am  more 
nice  about  them.  I  know  that  a  sweet  child  is  the  sweetest 
thing  in  nature,  not  even  excepting  the  delicate  creatures  which 
bear  them  ;  but  the  prettier  the  kind  of  a  thing  is,  the  more 
desirable  it  is  that  it  should  be  pretty  of  its  kind.  One  daisy 
differs  not  much  from  another  in  glory  ;  but  a  violet  should 
look  and  smell  the  daintiest.  —  I  was. always  rather  squeamish 
in  my  women  and  children. 

But  this  is  not  the  worst :  one  must  be  admitted  into  their 
familiarity  at  least,  before  they  can  complain  of  inattention. 
It  implies  visits,  and  some  kind  of  intercourse.  But  if  the 
husband  be  a  man  with  whom  you  have  lived  on  a  friend!)- 
footing  before  marriage,  —  if  you  did  not  come  in  on  the 
wife's  side,  —  if  you  did  not  sneak  into  the  house  in  her  train, 
but  were  an  old  friend  in  fast  habits  of  intimacy  before  their 
courtship  was  so  much  as  thought  on,  —  look  about  you  — 
your  tenure  is  precarious  —  before  a  twelvemonth  shall  roll 
over  your  head,  you  shall  find  your  old  friend  gradually  grow 
cool  and  altered  towards  you,  and  at  last  seek  opportunities  of 
breaking  with  you.  I  have  scarce  a  married  friend  of  my  ac- 
quaintance upon  whose  firm  faith  I  can  rely,  whose  friendship 
did  not  commence  after  tJic  period  of  Ids  viarriai:^c.  With 
some  limitations  they  can  endure  that :  but  tliat  the  good  man 
should  have  dared  to  enter  into  a  solemn  league  of  friendship 
in  which  they  were  not  consulted,  though  it  happened  before 
they  knew  him,  —  before  they  that  are  now  man  and  wife 
ever  met,  —  this  is  intolerable  to  them.  Every  long  friend- 
ship, every  old  authentic  intimacy,  must  be  brought  into  their 
office  to  be  new  stamped  with  their  currency,  as  a  sovereign- 
Prince  calls  in  the  good  old  money  that  was  coined  in  some 
reign  before  he  was  born  or  thought  of,  to  be  new  marked 
and  minted  with  the  stamp  of  his  authority,  before  he  will  let 
it  pass  current  in  the  world.  You  may  guess  what  luck  gen- 
erally befalls  such  a  rusty  piece  of  metal  as  I  am  in  these 
11C10  viiiitiiigs. 


CHARLES   LAMB  201 

Innumerable  are  the  ways  which  they  take  to  insult  and 
worm  you  out  of  their  husband's  confidence.  Laughing  at  all 
you  say  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  as  if  )-ou  were  a  queer  kind 
of  fellow  that  said  good  things,  luit  a)i  oddity,  is  one  of  the 
ways  ;  —  they  have  a  particular  kind  of  stare  for  the  purpose  ; 
—  till  at  last  the  husband,  who  used  to  defer  to  your  judg- 
ment, and  would  pass  over  some  excrescences  of  understand- 
ing and  manner  for  the  sake  of  a  general  vein  of  observation 
(not  quite  vulgar)  which  he  perceived  in  you,  begins  to  sus- 
pect whether  you  are  not  altogether  a  humorist,  —  a  fellow 
well  enough  to  have  consorted  with  in  his  bachelor  days,  but 
not  quite  so  proper  to  be  introduced  to  ladies.  This  may  be 
called  the  staring  way  ;  and  is  that  which  has  oftenest  been 
put  in  practice  against  me. 

Then  there  is  the  exaggerating  way,  or  the  way  of  irony  : 
that  is,  where  they  find  you  an  object  of  especial  regard  with 
their  husband,  who  is  not  so  easily  to  be  shaken  from  the  last- 
ing attachment  founded  on  esteem  which  he  has  conceived 
towards  you ;  by  never-qualified  exaggerations  to  cry  up  all 
that  you  say  or  do,  till  the  good  man,  who  understands  well 
enough  that  it  is  all  done  in  compliment  to  him,  grows  w^eary 
of  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  is  due  to  so  much  candour, 
and  by  relaxing  a  little  on  his  part,  and  taking  down  a  peg 
or  two  in  his  enthusiasm,  sinks  at  length  to  that  kindly  level 
of  moderate  esteem,  —  that  "decent  affection  and  complacent 
kindness  "  towards  you,  where  she  herself  can  join  in  sym- 
pathy with  him  without  much  stretch  and  violence  to  her 
sincerity. 

Another  way  (for  the  ways  they  have  to  accomplish  so  desir- 
able a  purpose  are  infinite)  is,  with  a  kind  of  innocent  sim- 
plicity, continually  to  mistake  what  it  was  which  first  made 
their  husband  fond  of  you.  If  an  esteem  for  something  ex- 
cellent in  your  moral  character  was  that  which  riveted  the 
chain  which  she  is  to  break,  upon  any  imaginary  discovery  of 
a  want  of  poignancy  in  your  conversation,  she  will  cry,  "  I 
thought,  my  dear,  you  described  3'our  friend,  ]\Ir.  as  a 


202  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILL\R  ESSAY 

great  wit."  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  for  some  supposed 
charm  in  your  conversation  that  he  first  grew  to  Hke  you,  and 
was  content  for  this  to  overlook  some  trifling  irregukirities 
in  your  moral  deportment,  upon  the  first  notice  of  any  of 
these  she  as  readily  exclaims,  "  This,  my  dear,  is  your  good 

Mr. -."    One   good   lady  whom  I  took  the   liberty  of 

expostulating  with  for  not  showing  me  quite  so  much  respect 
as  I  thought  due  to  her  husband's  old  friend,  had  the  candour 

to  confess  to  me  that  she  had  often  heard  Mr.  speak 

of  me  before  marriage,  and  that  she  had  conceived  a  great 
desire  to  be  acquainted  with  me,  but  that  the  sight  of  me 
had  very  much  disappointed  her  expectations  ;  for  from  her 
husband's  representations  of  me,  she  had  formed  a  notion 
i.hat  she  w'as  to  see  a  fine,  tall,  oflicer-like  looking  man  (I  use 
her  very  words)  ;  the  very  reverse  of  which  proved  to  be  the 
truth.  This  was  candid  ;  and  I  had  the  civility  not  to  ask  her 
in  return,  hov/  she  came  to  pitch  upon  a  standard  of  personal 
accomplishments  for  her  husband's  friends  which  differed  so 
much  from  his  own  ;  for  my  friend's  dimensions  as  near  as 
possible  approximate  to  mine  ;  he  standing  five  feet  five  in  his 
shoes,  in  which  I  have  the  advantage  of  him  by  about  half  an 
inch  ;  and  he  no  more  than  myself  exhibiting  any  indications 
of  a  martial  character  in  his  air  or  countenance. 

These  are  some  of  the  mortifications  which  I  have  en- 
countered in  the  absurd  attempt  to  visit  at  their  houses.  To 
enumerate  them  all  would  be  a  vain  endeavour :  I  shall  there- 
fore just  glance  at  the  very  common  impropriety  of  which 
married  ladies  are  guilty,  —  of  treating  us  as  if  we  were  their 
husbands,  and  vice  versa.  I  mean,  when  they  use  us  wdth 
familiarity,  and  their  husbands  with  ceremony.  Testacea,  for 
instance,  kept  me  the  other  night  two  or  three  hours  beyond 
my   usual   time   of   supping,    while   she  was   fretting  because 

Mr.   did    not  come   home,   till    the   oysters   were   all 

spoiled,  rather  than  she  would  be  guilty  of  the  impoliteness 
of  touching  one  in  his  absence.  This  was  reversing  the  point 
of   good  manners  :  for  ceremony  is  an  invention   to  take  off 


CHARLES  LAMB  203 

the  uneasy  feeling  which  we  derive  from  knowing  ourselves 
to  be  less  the  object  of  love  and  esteem  with  a  fellow-creature 
than  some  other  person  is.  It  endeavours  to  make  up,  by  supe- 
rior attentions  in  little  points,  for  that  invidious  preference 
which  it  is  forced  to  deny  in  the  greater.  Had  Testacea  kept 
the  oysters  back  for  me,  and  withstood  her  husband's  impor- 
tunities to  go  to  supper,  she  would  have  acted  according  to 
the  strict  rules  of  propriety.  I  know  no  ceremony  that  ladies 
are  bound  to  observe  to  their  husbands,  beyond  the  p(jint 
of  a  modest  behaviour  and  decorum  :  therefore  I  must  protest 
against  the  vicarious  gluttony  of  Cerasia,  who  at  her  own  table 
sent  away  a  dish  of  Morellas,  which  I  was  applying  to  with 
great  good  will,  to  her  husband  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
and  recommended  a  plate  of  less  extraordinary  gooseberries  to 
my  unwedded  palate  in  their  stead.    Neither  can  I  excuse  the 

wanton  affront  of  . 

But  I  am  weary  of  stringing  up  all  my  married  acquaint- 
ance by  Roman  denominations.  Let  them  amend  and  change 
their  manners,  or  I  promise  to  record  the  full-length  English 
of  their  names,  to  the  terror  of  all  such  desperate  offenders 
in  future. 

-^,  VALENTINE'S  DAY 

Examiner^  February  14  and  15,  1S19;  Indicator^  February  14,  1821 

Hail  to  thy  returning  festival,  old  Bishop  Valentine  !  Great 
is  thy  name  in  the  riibric,  thou  veiierabje  Archflamen  of  Hy- 
men !  Immortal  Go-between  !  \vho  and  what  manner  of  per- 
son art  thou  }  Art  thou  but  a  name,  typifying  the  restless 
principle  which  impels  poor  humans  to  seek  perfection  in 
union  }  or  wert  thou  indeed  a  mortal  prelate,  with  thy  tippet 
and  thy  rochet,  thy  apron  on,  and  decent  lawn  sleeves .?  Mys- 
terious personage !  like  unto  thee,  assuredly,  there  is  no  other 
mitred  father  in  the  calendar  ;  not  Jerome,  nor  Ambrose,  nor 
Cyril ;  nor  the  consigner  of  undipt  infants  to  eternal  torments, 
Austin,  whom  all  mothers  hate;   nor  he  who  hated  all  mothers, 


204  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Origen  ;  nor  Bishop  Bull,  nor  Archbishop  Parker,  nor  Whit- 
gift.  Thou  comest  attended  with  thousands  and  ten  thousands 
of  little  Loves,  and  the  air  is 

Brush'd  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.  - 

Singing  Cupids  are  thy  choristers  and  thy  precentors ;  and 
instead  of  the  crosier,  the  mystical  arrow  is  borne  before  thee. 

In  other  words,  this  is  the  day  on  which  those  charming 
little  missives,  ycleped  Valentines,  cross  and  intercross  each 
other  at  every  street  and  turning.  The  weary  and  all  forspent 
twopenny  postman  sinks  beneath  a  load  of  delicate  embarrass- 
ments, not  his  own.  It  is  scarcely  credible  to  what  an  extent 
this  ephemeral  courtship  is  carried  on  in  this  loving  town,  to 
the  great  enrichment  of  porters,  and  detriment  of  knockers 
and  bell- wires.  In  these  little  visual  interpretations,  no  emblem 
is  so  common  as  the  heart,  —  that  little  three-cornered  expo- 
nent of  all  our  hopes  and  fears,  —  the  bestuck  and  bleeding 
heart ;  it  is  twisted  and  tortured  into  more  allegories  and  affec- 
tations than  an  opera  hat.  What  authority  we  have  in  history 
or  mythology  for  placing  the  headquarters  and  metropolis  of 
God  Cupid  in  this  anatomical  seat  rather  than  in  any  other, 
is  not  very  clear ;  but  we  have  got  it,  and  it  will  serve  as  well 
as  any  other.  Else  we  might  easily  imagine,  upon  some  other 
system  which  might  have  prevailed  for  any  thing  which  our 
pathology  knows  to  the  contrary,  a  lover  addressing  his  mis- 
tress, in  perfect  simplicity  of  feeling,  "  Madam,  my  liver  and 
fortune  are  entirely  at  your  disposal  "  ;  or  putting  a  delicate 
question,  "Amanda,  have  you  a  midriff  to  bestow?"  But 
custom  has  settled  these  things,  and  awarded  the  seat  of 
sentiment  to  the  aforesaid  triangle,  while  its  less  fortunate 
neighbours  wait  at  animal  and  anatomical  distance. 

Not  many  sounds  in  life,  and  I  include  all  urban  and  all 
rural  sounds,  exceed  in  interest  a  knoek  at  the  door.  It  "  gives 
a  very  echo  to  the  throne  where  Hope  is  seated."  But  its 
issues  seldom  answer  to  this  oracle  within.  It  is  so  seldom 
that  just  the  person  we  want  to   see  comes.    But  of  all  the 


CHARLES  LAMB  205 

clamorous  visitations  the  welcomest  in  expectation  is  the  sound 
that  ushers  in,  or  seems  to  usher  in,  a  Valentine.  As  the 
raven  himself  was  hoarse  that  announced  the  fatal  entrance 
of  Duncan,  so  the  knock  of  the  postman  on  this  day  is  light, 
airy,  confident,  and  befitting  one  that  bringeth  good  tidings. 
It  is  less  mechanical  than  on  other  days;  you  will  say,  "That 
is  not  the  post  I  am  sure."  Visions  of  Love,  of  Cupids,  of 
Hymens!  —  delightful  eternal  common-places,  which  "having 
been  will  always  be "  ;  which  no  school-boy  nor  school-man 
can  write  away ;  having  your  irreversible  throne  in  the  fancy 
and  affections  —  what  are  your  transports,  when  the  happy 
maiden,  opening  with  careful  finger,  careful  not  to  break  the 
emblematic  seal,  bursts  upon  the  sight  of  some  well-designed 
allegory,  some  type,  some  youthful  fancy,  not  without  verses  ^- 

Lovers  all, 
A  madrigal, 

or  some  such  device,  not  over  abundant  in  sense  —  young 
Love  disclaims  it,  —  and  not  quite  silly  —  something  between 
wind  and  water,  a  chorus  where  the  sheep  might  almost 
join  the  shepherd,  as  they  did,  or  as  I  apprehend  they  did, 
in  Arcadia. 

All  Valentines  are  not  foolish  ;  and  I  shall  not  easily  forget 
thine,  my  kind  friend  (if  I  may  have  leave  to  call  you  so) 
E.  B.  —  E.  B.  lived  opposite  a  young  maiden,  whom  he  had 
often  seen,  unseen,  from  his  parlour  window  in  C  —  e  Street. 
She  was  all  joyousness  and  innocence,  and  just  of  an  age  to 
enjoy  receiving  a  Valentine,  and  just  of  a  temper  to  bear  the 
disappointment  of  missing  one  with  good  humour.  E.  B.  is  an 
artist  of  no  common  powers ;  in  the  fancy  parts  of  designing, 
perhaps  inferior  to  none  ;  his  name  is  known  at  the  bottom  of 
many  a  well-executed  vignette  in  the  way  of  his  profession,  but 
no  further ;  for  E.  B.  is  modest,  and  the  world  meets  nobody 
half-way.  E.  B.  meditated  how  he  could  repay  this  young 
maiden  for  many  a  favour  which  she  had  done  him  unknown  ; 
for  when  a  kindly  face  greets  us,  though  but  passing  by,  and 


2o6  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

never  Icnovvs  us  again,  nor  we  it,  we  should  feel  it  as  an  obli- 
gation ;  and  E.  ]>.  did.  This  good  artist  set  himself  at  work 
to  please  the  damsel.  It  was  just  before  Valentine's  day  three 
years  since.  He  wrought,  unseen  and  unsuspected,  a  wondrous 
work.  We  need  not  say  it  was  on  the  finest  gilt  paper  with 
borders  —  full,  not  of  common  hearts  and  heartless  allegory, 
but  all  the  prettiest  stories  of  love  from  Ovid,  and  older  poets 
than  Ovid  (for  K.  B.  is  a  scholar).  There  was  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe,  and  be  sure  Dido  was  not  forgot,  nor  Hero  and  Lean- 
der,  and  swans  more  than  sang  in  Cayster,  with  mottos  and 
fanciful  devices,  such  as  beseemed,  —  a  work  in  short  of 
magic.  Iris  dipt  the  woof.  This  on  Valentine's  eve  he  com- 
mended to  the  all-swallowing  indiscriminate  orifice  —  (O  ignoble 
trust !)  —  of  the  common  post ;  but  the  humble  medium  did 
its  duty,  and  from  his  watchful  stand,  the  next  morning,  he 
saw  the  cheerful  messenger  knock,  and  by  and  by  the  precious 
charge  delivered.  He  saw,  unseen,  the  happy  girl  unfold  the 
Valentine,  dance  about,  clap  her  hands,  as  one  after  one  the 
pretty  emblems  unfolded  themselves.  She  danced  about,  not 
with  light  love,  or  foolish  expectations,  for  she  had  no  lover ; 
or,  if  she  had,  none  she  knew  that  could  have  created  those 
bright  images  which  delighted  her.  It  was  more  like  some 
fairy  present ;  a  God-send,  as  our  familiarly  pious  ancestors 
termed  a  benefit  received,  where  the  benefactor  was  unknown. 
It  would  do  her  no  harm.  It  would  do  her*  good  for  ever 
after.  It  is  good  to  love  the  unknown.  I  only  give  this  as  a 
specimen  of  E.  B.  and  his  modest  way  of  doing  a  concealed 
kindness. 

Good-morrow  to  my  Valentine,  sings  poor  Ophelia  ;  and  no 
better  wish,  but  with  better  auspices,  we  wish  to  all  faithful 
lovers,  who  are  not  too  wise  to  despise  old  legends,  but  are 
content  to  rank  themselves  humble  diocesans  of  old  Bishop 
Valentine,  and  his  true  church. 


CHARLES  LAMB  207 

CHRIST'S  HOSPITAL  FIVE  AND  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO 

London  Magazine^  November,  1820 

In  Mr.  Lamb's  Works,  published  a  year  or  two  since,  I 
find  a  magnificent  eulogy  on  my  old  school,  such  as  it  was,  or 
now  appears  to  him  to  have  been,  between  the  years  1782  and 
1789.  It  happens,  very  oddly,  that  my  own  standing  at  Christ's 
was  nearly  corresponding  with  his  ;  and,  with  all  gratitude  to 
him  for  his  enthusiasm  for  the  cloisters,  I  think  he  has  con- 
trived to  bring  together  whatever  can  be  said  in  praise  of  them, 
dropping  all  the  other  side  of  the  argument  most  ingeniously. 

I  remember  L.  at  school ;  and  can  well  recollect  that  he  had 
some  peculiar  advantages,  which  I  and  others  of  his  school- 
fellows had  not.  His  friends  lived  in  town,  and  were  near  at 
hand  ;  and  he  had  the  privilege  of  going  to  see  them,  almost 
as  often  as  he  wished,  through  some  invidious  distinction, 
which  was  denied  to  us.  The  present  worthy  sub-treasurer  to 
the  Inner  Temple  can  explain  how  that  happened.  He  had 
his  tea  and  hot  rolls  in  a  morning,  while  we  were  battening 
upon  our  quarter  of  a  penny  loaf  —  our  crns^ — moistened  with 
attenuated  small  beer,  in  wooden  pcggins,  smacking  of  the 
pitched  leathern  jack  it  was  poured  from.  Our  Monday's  milk 
porritch,  blue  and  tasteless,  and  the  pease  soup  of  Saturday, 
coarse  and  choking,  were  enriched  for  him  with  a  slice  of 
"  extraordinary  bread  and  butter,"  from  the  hot-loaf  of  the 
Temple.  The  Wednesday's  mess  of  millet,  somewhat  less 
repugnant  —  (we  had  three  banyan  to  four  meat  days  in  the 
week)  —  was  endeared  to  his  palate  with  a  lump  of  double- 
refined,  and  a  smack  of  ginger  (to  make  it  go  down  the  more 
glibly)  or  the  fragrant  cinnamon.  In  lieu  of  our  Jialf-picklcd 
Sunda^^s,  or  quite  fresh  boiled  beef  on  Thursdays  (strong  as 
eaiv  equina),  with  detestable  marigolds  floating  in  the  pail  to 
poison  the  broth  —  our  scant)-  mutton  crags  on  Fridays  —  and 
rather  more  savouiy,  but  grudging,  portions  of  the  same  flesh, 
rotten-roasted  or  rare,  on  the  Tuesdays  (the  only  dish  which 
excited  our  appetites,  and  disappointed  our  stomachs,  in  almost 


208  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

equal  proportion)  —  he  had  his  hot  plate  of  roast  veal,  or  the 
more  tempting  griskin  (exotics  unknown  to  our  palates),  cooked 
in  the  paternal  kitchen  (a  great  thing),  and  brought  him  daily  by 
his  maid  or  aunt !  I  remember  the  good  old  relative  (in  whom 
love  forbade  pride)  squatting  down  upon  some  odd  stone  in  a 
by-nook  of  the  cloisters,  disclosing  the  viands  (of  higher  regale 
than  those  cates  which  the  ravens  ministered  to  the  Tishbite) ; 
and  the  contending  passions  of  L.  at  the  unfolding.  There  was 
love  for  the  bringer  ;  shame  for  the  thing  brought,  and  the 
manner  of  its  bringing  ;  sympathy  for  those  who  were  too  many 
to  share  in  it ;  and,  at  top  of  all,  hunger  (eldest,  strongest  of 
the  passions !)  predominant,  breaking  down  the  stony  fences  of 
shame,  and  awkwardness,  and  a  troubling  over-consciousness. 

I  was  a  poor  friendless  boy.  My  parents,  and  those  who 
should  care  for  me,  were  far  away.  Those  few  acquaintances 
of  theirs,  which  they  could  reckon  upon  being  kind  to  me  in 
the  great  city,  after  a  little  forced  notice,  which  they  had  the 
grace  to  take  of  me  on  my  first  arrival  in  town,  soon  grew 
tired  of  my  holiday  visits.  They  seemed  to  them  to  recur  too 
often,  though  I  thought  them  few  enough ;  and,  one  after 
another,  they  all  failed  me,  and  I  felt  myself  alone  among 
six  hundred  playmates. 

O  the  cruelty  of  separating  a  poor  lad  from  his  early  home- 
stead !  The  yearnings  which  I  used  to  have  towards  it  in 
those  unfledged  years!  How,  in  my  dreams,  would  my  native 
town  (far  in  the  west)  come  back,  with  its  church,  and  trees, 
and  faces  !  How  I  would  wake  weeping,  and  in  the  anguish 
of  my  heart  exclaim  upon  sweet  Calne  in  Wiltshire ! 

To  this  late  hour  of  my  life,  I  trace  impressions  left  by  the 
recollection  of  those  friendless  holidays.  The  long  warm  days 
of  summer  never  return  but  they  bring  with  them  a  gloom 
from  the  haunting  memory  of  those  zvJiole-day-lcavcs ,  when, 
by  some  strange  arrangement,  we  were  turned  out,  for  the 
live-long  day,  upon  our  own  hands,  whether  we  had  friends  to 
go  to,  or  none.  I  remember  those  bathing  excursions  to  the 
New  River,  which  L.  recalls  with  such  relish,  better,  I  think, 


CHARLES  LAMB  209 

than  he  can  —  for  he  was  a  home-seeking  lad,  and  did  not 
much  care  for  such  water-pastimes  :  —  How  merrily  we  would 
sally  forth  into  the  fields  ;  and  strip  under  the  first  warmth  of 
the  sun  ;  and  wanton  like  young  dace  in  the  streams  ;  getting 
us  appetites  for  noon,  which  those  of  us  that  were  penniless 
(our  scanty  morning  crust  long  since  exhausted)  had  not  the 
means  of  allaying  —  while  the  cattle,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
fishes,  were  at  feed  about  us,  and  we  had  nothing  to  satisfy 
our  cravings  —  the  very  beauty  of  the  day,  and  the  exercise 
of  the  pastime,  and  the  sense  of  liberty,  setting  a  keener  edge 
upon  them  !  —  How  faint  and  languid  finally  we  would  return, 
towards  nightfall,  to  our  desired  morsel,  half-rejoicing,  half- 
reluctant,  that  the  hours  of  our  uneasy  liberty  had  expired  ! 

It  was  worse  in  the  days  of  winter,  to  go  prowling  about 
the  streets  objectless  —  shivering  at  cold  windows  of  print- 
shops,  to  extract  a  little  amusement ;  or  haply,  as  a  last  resort, 
in  the  hope  of  a  little  novelty,  to  pay  a  fifty-times  repeated 
visit  (where  our  individual  faces  should  be  as  well  known  to 
the  warden  as  those  of  his  own  charges)  to  the  Lions  in  the 
Tower  ^ — to  whose  levee,  by  courtesy  immemorial,  we  had  a 
prescriptive  title  to  admission. 

L.'s  governor  (so  we  called  the  patron  who  presented  us 
to  the  foundation)  lived  in  a  manner  under  his  paternal  roof. 
Any  complaint  which  he  had  to  make  was  sure  of  being 
attended  to.  This  was  understood  at  Christ's,  and  was  an 
effectual  screen  to  him  against  the  severity  of  masters,  or 
worse  tyranny  of  the  monitors.  The  oppressions  of  these 
young  brutes  are  heart-sickening  to  call  to  recollection.  I 
have  been  called  out  of  my  bed,  and  zvakcd  for  the  purpose, 
in  the  coldest  winter  nights  —  and  this  not  once,  but  night 
after  night  —  in  my  shirt,  to  receive  the  discipline  of  a 
leathern  thong,  with  eleven  other  sufferers,  because  it  pleased 
my  callow  overseer,  when  there  has  been  any  talking  heard 
after  we  were  gone  to  bed,  to  make  the  six  last  beds  in  the 
dormitory,  where  the  youngest  children  of  us  slept,  answerable 
for  an  offence   they   neither  dared   to   commit,   nor   had   the 


2IO  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESS^Y 

power  to  hinder.  —  The  same  execrable  tyranny  drove  the 
younger  part  of  us  from  the  fires,  when  our  feet  were  perish- 
ing with  snow ;  and  under  the  crudest  penalties,  forbade  the 
indulgence  of  a  drink  of  water,  when  we  lay  in  sleepless  sum- 
mer nights,  fevered  with  the  season,  and  the  day's  sports. 

There    was   one   H ,  who,   I   learned,   in  after  days, 

was  seen  e^giatiag  some  maturer  offence  in  the  hulks.  (Do  I 
flatter  myself  in   fancying  that  this  might  be  the  planter  of 

that  name,  who  suffered- at  Nevis,  I  think,  or  St.  Kitts, 

some  few  years  since  ?  My  friend  Tobin  was  the  benevo- 
lent instrument  of  bringing  him  to  the  gallows.)  This  petty 
;^ero  actually  branded  a  boy,  who  had  offended  him,  with  a 
'red-hot  iron  ;  and  nearly  starved  forty  of  us,  with  exacting 
contributions,  to  the  one  half  of  our  bread,  to  pamper  a  young 
ass,  which,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  with  the  connivance  of 
the  nurse's  daughter  (a  young  flame  ot  his)  he  had  contrived 
to  smuggle  in,  and  keep  upon  the  leaSs  of  the  waj-d,  as  they 
called  our  dormitories.  This  game  went  op  for  better  than  a 
week,  till  the  foolish  beast,  not  able  to  fare  well  but  he  must 
cry  roast  meat  —  happier  than  Caligula's  mimon,  could  he 
have  kept  his  own  counsel  —  but,  foolisher,  alas !  than  any 
of  his  species  in  the  fables  —  waxing  fat,  and  kicking,  in  the 
fulness  of  bread,  one  unlucky  minute  would  needs  proclaim 
his  good  fortune  to  the  world  below  ;  and,  laying  out  his  sim- 
ple throat,  blew  such  a  ram's  horn  blast,  as  (toppling  down 
the  walls,  of  his  own  Jericho)  set  concealment  any  longer  at, 
defiance.  Tl^e  client  was  dismissed,  with  certain  attentions,  to 
'^SmitWefcT;  but  I  never  understood  that  the  patron  underwent 
any  censure  m  the  occasion.  This  was  in  the  stewardship  of 
L.'s  admired  Ferry. 

Under  the  same  facile  administration,  can  L.  have  forgotten 
the  cool  impunity  with  which  the  nurses  used  to  carry  away 
openly,  in  open  platters,  for  their  own  tables,  one  out  of  two 
of  every  hot  joint,  which  the  careful  matron  had  been  seeing 
scrupulously  weighed  out  for  our  dinners  ?  These  things  were 
daily  practised  in  that  magnificent  apartment,  which  L.  (grown 


CHARLES  LAMB  21  r 

connoisseur  since,  we  presume)  praises  so  highly  for  the  grand 
paintings  "by  Verrio,  and  others,"  with  which  it  is  "hung 
round  and  adorned."  But  the  sight  of  sleek,  well-fed  blue- 
coat  boys  in  pictures  was,  at  that  time,  I  believe,  little  consola- 
tory to  him,  or  us,  the  living  ones,  who  saw  the  better  part  of 
our  provisions  carried  away  before  our  faces  by  harpies  ;  and 
ourselves  reduced  (with  the  Trojan  in  the  hall  of  Dido) 
To  feed  our  mind  with  idle  portraiture. 

L.  has  recorded  the  repugnance  of  the  school  to  j^a^^s, 
or  the  fat  of  fresh  beef  boiled  ;  and  sets  it  down  to  some 
superstition.  But  these  unctuous  morsels  are  never  grateful 
to  young  palates  (children  are  universally  fat-haters)  and  in 
strong,  coarse,  boiled  meats,  iinsalted,  are  detestable.  A  gag- 
eater  in  our  time  was  equivalent  to  a  gonf^^^  held  in  equal 

detestation.    suffered  under  the  imputation.  y^  . 

'Twassaid,  '        -^f-^"^!" 

He  ate  strange  flesh.  v.en|'»-»^^ 

He  was  observed,  after  dinner,  carefully  to  gather  up  the 
remnants  left  at  his  table  (not  many,  nor  very  choice  frag- 
ments, you  may  credit  me)  —  and,  in  an  especial  manner, 
these  disreputable  morsels,  which  he  would  convey  away,  and 
secretly  stow  in  the  settle  that  stood  at  his  bed-side.  None 
saw  when  he  ate  them.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  privately 
devoured  them  in  the  night.  Pie  was  watched,  but  no  traces 
of  such  midnight  practices  were  discoverable.  Some  reported 
that,  on  leave-days,  he  had  been  seen  to  carry  out  of  the 
bounds  a  large  blue  check  handkerchief,  full  of  something. 
This  then  must  be  the  accursed  thing.  Conjecture  next  was 
at  work  to  imagine  how  he  could  dispose  of  it.  Some  said  he 
sold  it  to  the  beggars.  This  belief  generally  prevailed.  He 
went  about  moping.  None  spake  to  him.  No  one  would 
play  with  him.  He  was  excommunicated  ;  put  out  of  the  pale 
of  the  school.  He  was  too  powerful  a  boy  to  be  beaten,  but 
he  underwent  ever}'  mode  of  that  negative  punishment,  which 
is  more  grievous  than  many  stripes.    Still  he  persevered.    At 


212  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

length  he  was  observed  by  two  of  his  school-fellows,  who  were 
determined  to  get  at  the  secret,  and  had  traced  him  one  leave- 
day  for  that  purpose,  to  enter  a  large  worn-out  building,  such 
as  there  exist  specimens  of  in  Chancery  Lane,  which  are  let 
out  to  various  scales  of  pauperism  with  open  door,  and  a  com- 
mon staircase.  After  him  they  silently  slunk  in,  and  followed 
by  stealth  up  four  flights,  and  saw  him  tap  at  a  poor  wicket, 
whicli  was  opened  by  an  aged  woman,  meanly  clad.  Suspicion 
was  now  ripened  into  certainty.  The  informers  had  secured 
their  victim.  They  had  him  in  their  toils.  Accusation  was 
formally  preferred,  and  retribution  most  signal  was  looked  for. 
Mr.  Hathaway,  the  then  steward  (for  this  happened  a  little 
after  my  time),  with  that  patient  sagacity  which  tempered  all 
his  conduct,  determined  to  investigate  the  matter,  before  he 
proceeded  to  sentence.  The  result  was  that  the  supposed 
mendicants,    the    receivers    or    purchasers    of    the    mysterious 

scraps,  turned  out  to  be  the  parents  of ,  an  honest  couple 

come  to  decay,  —  whom  this  seasonable  supply  had,  in  all 
probability,  saved  from  mendicancy ;  and  that  this  young 
stork,  at  the  expense  of  his  own  good  name,  had  all  this  while 
been  only  feeding  the  old  birds !  —  The  governors  on  this 
occasion,  much  to  their  honour,  voted  a  present  relief  to  the 

family  of ,  and  presented  him  with  a  silver  medal.    The 

lesson  which  the  steward  read  upon  kasii  judgment,  on 
the  occasion  of  publicly  delivering  the  medal  to ,  I  be- 
lieve, would  not  be  lost  upon  his  auditory.  —  I  had  left  school 

then,  but   I  well  remember .    He  was  a  tall,  shambling 

youth,  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  not  at  all  calculated  to  concili- 
ate hostile  prejudices.  I  have  since  seen  him  carrying  a 
baker's  basket.  I  think  I  heard  he  did  not  do  quite  so  well 
by  himself,  as  he  had  done  by  the  old  folks. 

I  was  a  hypochondriac  lad  ;  and  the  sight  of  a  boy  in  fet- 
ters, upon  the  day  of  my  first  putting  on  the  blue  clothes,  was 
not  exactly  fitted  to  assuage  the  natural  terrors  of  initiation. 
I  was  of  tender  years,  barely  turned  of  seven  ;  and  had  only 
read  of  such  things  in  books,  or  seen  them  but  in  dreams,    I 


CHARLES  LAMB  213 

was  told  he  had  rim  away.  This  was  the  punishment  for  the 
first  offence.  —  As  a  novice  I  was  soon  after  taken  to  sec  the 
dungeons.  These  were  httle,  square,  Bedlam  cells,  where  a 
boy  could  just  lie  at  his  length  upon  straw  and  a  blanket  —  a 
mattress,  I  think,  was  afterwards  substituted  —  with  a  peep  of 
light,  let  in  askance,  from  a  prison-orifice  at  top,  barely  enough 
to  read  by.  Here  the  poor  boy  was  locked  in  by  himself  all 
day,  without  sight  of  any  but  the  porter  who  brought  him  his 
bread  and  water  —  who  might  not  speak  to  him ;  —  or  of  the 
beadle,  who  came  twice  a  week  to  call  'him  out  to  receive  his 
periodical  chastisement,  which  was  almost  welcome,  because  it 
separated  him  for  a  brief  interval  from  solitude  :  —  and  here 
he  was  shut  up  by  himself  of  nights,  out  of  the  reach  of  any 
sound,  to  suffer  whatever  horrors  the  weak  nerves,  and  supersti- 
tion incident  to  his  time  of  life,  might  subject  him  to.^  This 
was  the  penalty  for  the  second  offence.  —  Wouldst  thou  like, 
reader,  to  see  what  became  of  him  in  the  next  degree } 

The  culprit,  who  had  been  a  third  time  an  offender,  and 
whose  expulsion  was  at  this  time  deemed  irreversible,  was 
brought  forth,  as  at  some  solemn  auto  da  fc,  arrayed  in.un-  r^^ 
couth  and  most  appalling  attire  —  all  trace  of  his  late  "  watchet 
weeds  "  carefully  effaced,  he  was  exposed  in  a  jacket,  resem- 
bling those  which  London  lamplighters  formerly  delighted  in, 
with  a  cap  of  the  same.  The  effect  of  this  divestiture  was  such 
as  the  ingenious  devisers  of  it  could  have  anticipated.  With 
his  pale  and  frighted  features,  it  was  as  if  some  of  those  dis- 
figurements in  Dante  had  seized  upon  him.  \\\  this  disguise- 
ment  he  was  brought  into  the  hall  {Ls  favourite  state-room), 
where  awaited  him  the  whole  number  of  his  schoolfellows, 
whose  joint  lessons  and  sports  he  was  thenceforth  to  share  no 
more ;  the  awful  presence  of  the  steward,  to  be  seen  for  the 

1  One  or  two  instances  of  lunacy,  or  attempted  suicide,  accordingly,  at 
length  convinced  the  governors  of  the  impolicy  of  this  part  of  the  sentence, 
and  the  midnight  torture  to  the  spirits  was  dispensed  with.  —  This  fancy  of 
dungeons  for  children  was  a  sprout  of  Howard's  brain  ;  for  which  (saving 
the  reverence  due  to  Holy  Paul),  methinks,  I  could  willingly  spit  upon  his 
statue. 


2T4  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

last  time  ;  of  the  executioner  beadle,  clad  in  his  state  robe  for 
the  occasion  ;  and  of  two  faces  more,  of  direr  import,  because 
never  but  in  these  extremities  visible.  These  were  governors  ; 
two  of  whom,  by  choioe,  or  charter,  ^^vere  alwa}'s  accustomed 
to  officiate  at  these  Uliima''^np'pticia\  not  to  mitigate  (so  at 
least  we  understood  it),  but  to  enforce  the  uttermost  stripe. 
Old  Bamber  Gascoigne,  and  Peter  Aubert,  I  remember,  were 
colleagues  on  one  occasion,  when  the  beadle  turning  rather 
pale,  a  glass  of  brandy  was  ordered  to  prepare  him  for  the  mys- 
teries. The  scourging  was,  after  the  old  Roman  fashion,  long 
and  stately.  The  llctor 'Accompanied  the  criminal  quite  round 
the  hall.  We  were  generally  too  faint  with  attending  to  the  pre- 
vious disgusting  circumstances,  to  make  accurate  report  with 
our  eyes  of  the  degree  of  corporal  suffering  inflicted.  Report, 
of  course,  gave  out  the  back  knotty  and  livjd.  After  scourging, 
he  was  made  over,  in  his  Saii^^imo,  to  nisiriends,  if  he  had 
any  (but  commonly  such  poor  runagates  were  friendless),  or  to 
his  parish  officer,  who,  to  enhance  the  effect  of  the  scene,  had 
his  station  allotted  to  him  on  the  outside  of  the  hall  gate. 

These  solemn  pageantries  were  not  played  off  so  often  as 
to  spoil  the  general  mirth  of  the  community.  We  had  plenty 
of  exercise  and  recreation  after  school  hours  ;  and,  for  myself, 
I  must  confess,  that  I  was  never  happier,  than  in  them.  The 
Upper  and  Lower  Grammar  Schools  were  held  in  the  same 
room  ;  and  an  imaginary  line  only  divided  their  bounds.  Their 
character  was  as  different  as  that  of  the  inhabitants  on  the 
two^d^s^  OT *  tn^''^f^e'^!e^^"Tnc  Rev.  James  Boyer  was  the 
Upper  Master ;  but  the  Rev.  Matthew  Field  presided  over  that 
portion  of  the  apartment  of  which  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
be  a  member.  We  lived  a  life  as  careless  as  birds.  We  talked 
and  did  just  what  we  pleased,  and  nobody  molested  us.  We 
carried  an  accidence,  or  a  grammar,  for  form  ;  but,  for  any 
trouble  it  gave  us,  we  might  take  two  years  in  getting  through 
the  verbs  deponent,  and  another  two  in  forgetting  all  that  we 
had  learned  about  them.  There  was  now  and  then  the  for- 
mality of   saying  a   lesson,  but   if  you   had  not  learned  it,  a 


CHARLES  LAMB  215 

bmsh  across  the  shoulders  (just  enough  to  disturb  a  fly)  was 
the  sole  remonstrance.  Field  never  used  the  rod  ;  and  in  truth 
he  wielded  the  cane  with  no  great  good  will  —  holding  it 
"  like  a  dancer."  It  looked  in  his  hands  rather  like  an  emblem 
than  an  instrument  of  authority ;  and  an  emblem,  too,  he  was 
ashamed  of.  He  was  a  good  easy  man,  that  did  not  care  to  ' 
ruffle  his  own  peace,  nor  perhaps  set  any  great  consideration 
upon  the  value  of  juvenile  time.  He  came  among  us,  now  and 
then,  but  often  stayed  away  whole  days  from  us  ;  and  when  he 
came,  it  made  no  difference  to  us  —  he  had  his  private  room 
to  retire  to,  the  short  time  he  stayed,  to  be  out  of  the  sound 
of  our  noise.  Our  mirth  and  uproar  went  on.  We  had  clas- 
sics of  our  own,  without  being  beholden  to  "  insolent  Greece 
or  haughty  Rome,"  that  passed  current  among  us  —  Peter 
Wilkins —  TJic  Adventures  of  the  Flon.  Capt.  Robert  Doyle  — 
TJie  Fortunate  Blue  Coat  Boy  — •  and  the  like.  Or  we  cultivated 
a  turn  for  mechanic  or  scientific  operation ;  making  little  sun- 
dials of  paper ;  or  weaving  those  ingenious  parentheses,  called 
cat-cradles  ;  or  making  dry  peas  to  dance  upon  the  end  of  a 
tin  pipe ;  or  studying  the  art  military  over  that  laudable  game 
"  French  and  English,"  and  a  hundred  other  such  devices  to 
pass  away  the  time  —  mixing  the  useful  with  the  agreeable  — 
as  would  have  made  the  souls  of  Rousseau  and  John  Locke 
chuckle  to  have  seen  us. 

Matthew  Field  belonged  to  that  class  of  modest  divines  who 
affect  to  mix  in  equal  proportion  the  gentleman,  the  scholar, 
and  the  Christian  ;  but,  I  know  not  how,  the  first  ingredient 
is  generally  found  to  be  the  predominating  dose  in  the  com- 
position. He  was  engaged  in  gay  parties,  or  with  his  courtly 
bow  at  some  episcopal  levee,  when  he  should  have  been  attend- 
ing upon  us.  He  had  for  many  years  the  classical  charge  of 
a  hundred  children,  during  the  four  or  five  first  years  of  their 
education  ;  and  his  very  highest  form  seldom  proceeded  further  jr 
than  t\vo  or  three  of  the  introductory  fables  of  PhasdrusT'  How  ij;i^  l 
things  were  suffered  to  go  on  thus,  I  cannot  guess.  Boycr, 
who  was  the  proper  person  to  have   remedied  these   abuses. 


2i6  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

always  affected,  perhaps  felt,  a  delicacy  in  interfering  in  a 
province  not  strictly  his  own.  I  have  not  been  without  my 
suspicions  that  he  was  not  altogether  displeased  at  the  con- 
trast we  presented  to  his  end  of  the  school.  We  were  a  sort 
of  Helots  to  his  young  Spartans.  He  would  sometimes,  with 
ironic  deference,  send  to  borrow  a  rod  of  the  Under  Master, 
and  then,  with  Sardonic  grin,  observe  to  one  of  his  upper 
boys,  "  how  neat  and  fresh  the  twigs  looked."  While  his  pale 
students  were  battering  their  brains  over  Xenophon  and  Plato, 
with  a  silence  as  deep  as  that  enjoined  by  the  Samite,  we  were 
enjoying  ourselves  at  our  ease  in  our  little  Goshen.  We  saw 
a  little  into  the  secrets  of  his  discipline,  and  the  prospect  did 
but  the  more  reconcile  us  to  our  lot.  His  thunders  rolled  in- 
nocuous for  us  ;  his  storms  came  near,  but  never  touched  us  ; 
contrary  to  Gideon's  miracle,  while  all  around  were  drenched, 
our  fleece  was  dry.^  His  boys  turned  out  the  better  scholars  ; 
we,  I  suspect,  have  the  advantage  in  temper.  His  pupils  can- 
not speak  of  him  without  something  of  terror  allaying  their 
gratitude ;  the  remembrance  of  Field  comes  back  with  all  the 
soothing  images  of  indolence,  and  summer  slumbers,  and  work 
like  play,  and  innocent  idleness,  and  Elysian  exemptions,  and 
life  itself  a  "'  playing  holiday." 

Though  sufficiently  removed  from  the  jurisdiction  of  Boyer, 
we  were  near  enough  (as  I  have  said)  to  understand  a  little  of 
his  system.  We  occasionally  heard  sounds  of  the  Uhilantcs, 
and  caught  glances  of  Tartarus.  V>.  was  a  rabid  pedant.  His 
English  style  was  cramped  to  barbarism.  His  Easter  anthems 
(for  his  duty  obliged  him  to  those  periodical  flights)  were  grat- 
ing as   scrannel  pipes.^  —  He  would  laugh,  ay,  and   heartily, 

1  Cowley. 

2  In  this  and  everything  B.  was  the  antipodes  of  his  coadjutor.  While  the 
former  was  digging  his  brains  for  crude  anthems,  worth  a  pig-nut,  F.  would 
be  recreating  his  gentlemanly  fancy  in  the  more  flowery  walks  of  the  Muses. 
A  little  dramatic  effusion  of  his,  under  the  name  of  Vertitmii?(s  and  Poinona, 
is  not  yet  forgotten  by  the  chroniclers  of  that  sort  of  literature.  It  was  ac- 
cepted by  Garrick,  but  the  town  did  not  give  it  their  sanction. — -B.  used  to 
say  of  it,  in  a  way  of  half-compliment,  half-irony,  that  it  was  foo  classical 
fo7'  representation. 


CHARLES   LAMB  21/ 

but  then  it  must  be  at  Flaccus's  quibble  about  Rex or  at 

the  tristis  scvctitas  in  vidtn,  or  inspiccre  in  patinas,  of  Terence 
—  thin  jests,  which  at  their  first  broaching  could  hardly  have 
had  vis  enough  to  move  a  Roman  muscle.  —  He  had  two  wigs, 
both  pedantic,  but  of  differing  omen.  The  one  serene,  smil- 
ing, fresh  powdered,  betokening  a  mild  day.  The  other,  an 
old  discoloured,  unkempt,  angry  caxon,  denoting  frequent  and 
bloody  execution.  Woe  to  the  school,  when  he  made  his  morn- 
ing appearance  in  his  passy,  or  passionate  zvig.  No  comet  ex- 
pounded surer. — J.  B.  had  a  heavy  hand.  I  have  known  him 
double  his  knotty  fist  at  a  poor  trembling  child  (the  maternal 
milk  hardly  dry  upon  its  lips)  with  a  "  Sirrah,  do  you  presume 
to  set  your  wits  at  me  .''  "  —  Nothing  was  more  common  than 
to  see  him  make  a  headlong  entry  into  the  schoolroom,  from 
his  inner  recess,  or  library,  and,  with  turbulent  eye,  singling 
out  a  lad,  roar  out,  "  Od's  my  life.  Sirrah  "  (his  favourite  ad- 
juration), "I  have  a  great  mind  to  whip  you,"  —  then,  with 
as  sudden  a  retracting  impulse,  fling  back  into  his  lair  —  and, 
after  a  cooling  lapse  of  some  minutes  (during  which  all  but  the 
culprit  had  totally  forgotten  the  context)  drive  headlong  out 
again,  piecing  out  his  imperfect  sense,  as  if  it  had  been  some 
Devil's  Litany,  with  the  expletory  yell  —  "  and  I  will  too!'  — 
In  his  gentler  moods,  when  the  rabidus  furor  was  assuaged, 
he  had  resort  to  an  ingenious  method,  peculiar,  for  what  I 
have  heard,  to  himself,  of  whipping  the  boy,  and  reading  the 
Debates,  at  the  same  time  ;  a  paragraph,  and  a  lash  between  ; 
which  in  those  times,  when  parliamentary  oratory  was  most  at 
a  height  and  flourishing  in  these  realms,  was  not  calculated  to 
impress  the  patient  with  a  veneration  for  the  diffuser  graces 
of  rhetoric. 

Once,  and  but  once,  the  uplifted  rod  was  known  to  fall  inef- 
fectual from  his  hand  —  when  droll  squinting  W having 

been  caught  putting  the  inside  of  the  master's  desk  to  a  use 
for  which  the  architect  had  clearly  not  designed  it,  to  justify 
himself,  with  great  simplicity  averred  that  he  did  not  knozv  that 
the  thing  had  been  forewarned.    This  exquisite  irrecognition 


2i8  IIIE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR   ESSAY 

of  any  law  antecedent  to  the  oral  or  declaratory  struck  so 
irresistibly  upon  the  fancy  of  all  who  heard  it  (the  pedagogue 
himself  not  excepted)  that  remission  was  unavoidable. 

L.  has  given  credit  to  B.'s  great  merits  as  an  instructor. 
Coleridge,  in  his  literary  life,  has  pronounced  a  more  intelli- 
gible and  ample  encomium  on  them.  The  author  of  the 
Coimtry  Spectator  doubts  not  to  compare  him  with  the  ablest 
teachers  of  antiquity.  Perhaps  we  cannot  dismiss  him  better 
than  with  the  pious  ejaculation  of  C.  —  when  he  heard  that 
his  old  master  was  on  his  death-bed  —  "Poor  J.  B. !  —  may 
all  his  faults  be  forgiven  ;  and  may  he  be  wafted  to  bliss  by 
little  cherub  boys,  all  head  and  wings,  with  no  bottoms  to 
reproach  his  sublunary  infirmities." 

Under  him  were  many  good  and  sound  scholars  bred.  — 
P"irst  Grecian  of  my  time  was  Lancelot  Pepys  Stevens,  kindest 
of  boys  and  men,  since  Co-grammar-master  (and  inseparable 

companion)  with  Dr.  T e.     What  an  edifying  spectacle 

did  this  brace  of  friends  present  to  those  who  remembered  the 
anti-socialities  of  their  predecessors  !  —  You  never  met  the  one 
by  chance  in  the  street  without  a  wonder,  which  was  quickly 
dissipated  by  the  almost  immediate  sub-appearance  of  the  other. 
Generally  arm  in  arm,  these  kindly  coadjutors  lightened  for 
each  other  the  toilsome  duties  of  their  profession,  and  when, 
in  advanced  age,  one  found  it  convenient  to  retire,  the  other 
was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  suited  him  to  lay  down  the 
fasces  also.  Oh,  it  is  pleasant,  as  it  is  rare,  to  find  the  same 
arm  linked  in  yours  at  forty,  which  at  thirteen  helped  it  to 
turn  over  the  Cicero  De  Aniicitia,  or  some  tale  of  Antique 
Friendship,  which  the  young  heart  even  then  was  burning  to 

anticipate  !  —  Co-Grecian  with  S.  was  Th ,  who  has  since 

executed  with  ability  various  diplomatic  functions  at  the  Northern 

courts.    Th was  a  tall,  dark,  saturnine  youth,  sparing  of 

speech,  with  raven  locks.  —  Thomas  Fanshaw  Middleton  fol- 
lowed him  (now  Bishop  of  Calcutta)  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman 
in  his  teens.  He  has  the  reputation  of  an  excellent  critic  ; 
and  is  author  (besides  the  Coimtry  Spectator )  of  a  Ti'catisc  on 


CHARLKS   LAMB  219 

tJie  Greek  Article,  against  Sharpe  —  M.  is  said  to  bear  his 
mitre  high  in  India,  where  the  regiii  novitas  (I  dare  say) 
sufficiently  justifies  the  bearing.  A  humihty  quite  as  primitive 
as  that  of  Jewel  or  Hooker  might  not  be  exactly  fitted  to 
impress  the  minds  of  those  Anglo-Asiatic  diocesans  with  a 
reverence  for  home  institutions,  and  the  church  which  those 
fathers  watered.  The  manners  of  M.  at  school,  though  firm, 
were  mild,  and  unassuming.  —  Next  to  M,  (if  not  senior  to 
him)  was  Richards,  author  of  the  Aboriginal  Britons,  the  most 
spirited  of  the  Oxford  Prize  Poems  ;  a  pale,  studious  Grecian. 

—  Then  followed  poor  S ,  ill-fated  M !  of  these 

the  Muse  is  silent. 

Finding  some  of  Edward's  race 
Unliappy,  pass  their  annals  by. 

Come  back  into  memory,  like  as  thou  wert  in  the  dayspring 
of  thy  fancies,  with  hope  like  a  fiery  column  before  thee  — 
the    dark    pillar  not  yet   turned  —  Samuel    Taylor    Coleridge 

—  Logician,  Metaphysician,  Bard!  —  How  have  I  seen  the 
casual  passer  through  the  Cloisters  stand  still,  entranced  with 
admiration  (w^hile  he  weighed  the  disproportion  between  the 
speech  and  the  garb  of  the  young  Mirandula),  to  hear  thee 
unfold,  in  thy  deep  and  sweet  intonations,  the  mysteries  of 
Jamblichus,  or  Plotinus  (for  even  in  those  years  thou  waxedst 
not  pale  at  such  philosophic  draughts),  or  reciting  Homer  in 
his  Greek,  or  Pindar  —  while  the  walls  of  the  old  Grey  P'riars 
re-echoed  to  the  accents  of  the  inspired  charity-boy  !  —  Many 
were  the  "  wit-combats  "  (to  dally  awhile  with  the  words  of  old 

P'uller)  between  him  and  C.  V.  Le  G ,  "  which'  two  I 

behold  like  a  Spanish  great  gallion,  and  an  English  man-of- 
war  ;  Master  Coleridge,  like  the  former,  was  built  far  higher 
in  learning,  solid,  but  slow  in  his  performances.  C.  V.  L., 
with  the  English  man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in 
sailing,  could  turn  with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage 
of  all  winds,  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention." 

Nor  shalt  thou,  their  compeer,  be  quickly  forgotten,  Allen, 
with  the  cordial  smile,  and  still  more  cordial  laugh,  with  which 


220  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

thou  wcrt  wont  to  make  the  old  Cloisters  shake,  in  thy  cogni- 
tion of  some  poignant  jest  of  theirs  ;  or  the  anticipation  of 
some  more  material,  and,  peradventure,  practical  one,  of  thine 
own.  Extinct  are  those  smiles,  with  that  beautiful  countenance, 
with  which  (for  thou  wert  the  Nirnis  foniiosus  of  the  school), 
in  the  days  of  thy  maturer  waggery,  thou  didst  disarm  the 
wrath  of  infuriated  town-damsel,  who,  incensed  by  provoking 
pinch,   turning  tigress-like  round,   suddenly  converted  by  thy 

angel-look,  exchanged  the  half-formed  terrible  "/;/ ,"  for 

a  gentler  greeting — "bless  tJiy  handsome  face  !  " 

Next  follow  two,  who  ouglit  to  be  now  ali\'e,  and  the  friends 

of  Elia  —  the  junior  Le  G and  V ;  who  impelled, 

the  former  by  a  roving  temper,  the  latter  by  too  quick  a  sense 
of  neglect  —  ill  capable  of  enduring  the  slights  poor  Sizars 
are  sometimes  subject  to  in  our  seats  of  learning  —  exchanged 
their  Alma  Mater  for  the  camp  ;  perishing,  one  by  climate, 

and  one  on  the  plains  of  Salamanca  :  —  Le  G sanguine, 

volatile,  sweet-natured  ;  F dogged,  faithful,  anticipative 

of  insult,  warm-hearted,  with  something  of  the  old  Roman 
height  about  him. 

Fine,  frank-hearted  Fr ,  the  present  master  of  Hert- 
ford, with  Marmaduke  T ,  mildest  of  Missionaries-— and 

both  my  good  friends  still  —  close  the  catalogue  of  Grecians 
in  my  time. 

THE  TWO  RACES  OF  MEN 

London  Mcii^azi/ie,  December,  1820 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory  I  can  form 
of  it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct  races,  t/ie  men  ndio  borroiv, 
and  the  men  zvho  lend.  To  these  two  original  diversities  may 
be  reduced  all  those  impertinent  classifications  of  Gothic  and 
Celtic  tribes,  white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the  dwellers 
upon  earth,  "  Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,"  flock 
hither,  and  do  naturally  fall  in  with  one  or  other  of  these 
primary  distinctions.    The  infinite  superiority  of  the  former. 


CHARLES   LAMB  221 

which  I  choose  to  designate  as  the  great  race,  is  discernible 
in  their  figure,  port,  and  a  certain  instinctive  sovereignty.  The 
latter  are  born  degraded.  "  He  shall  serve  his  brethren." 
There  is  something  in  the  air  of  one  of  this  cast,  lean  and  sus- 
picious ;  contrasting  with  the  open,  trusting,  generous  manner 
of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of  all  ages 
—  Alcibiades  —  Falstaff  —  Sir  Richard  Steele  —  our  late  in- 
comparable Brinsley  —  what  a  family  likeness  in  all  four  ! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  borrower  !  what 
rosy  gills !  what  a  beautiful  reliance  on  Providence  doth  he 
manifest,  —  taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies  !  What  con- 
tempt for  money,  —  accounting  it  (yours  and  mine  especially) 
no  better  than  dross  !  What  a  liberal  confounding  of  those 
pedantic  distinctions  of  ineuvi  and  t2iuin  !  or  rather,  what  a 
noble  simplification  of  language  (beyond  Tooke),  resolving  these 
supposed  opposites  into  one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjec- 
tive !  —  What  near  approaches  doth  he  make  to  the  primitive 
couiinunity,  —  to  the  extent  of  one-half  of  the  principle  at 
least ! — 

He  is  the  true  taxer  who  "calleth  all  the  world  up  to  be 
taxed  "  ;  and  the  distance  is  as  vast  between  him  and  one  of 
its,  as  subsisted  betwixt  the  Augustan  Majesty  and  the  poorest 
obolary  Jew  that  paid  it  tribute-pittance  at  Jerusalem  !  —  His 
exactions,  too,  have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air !  So  far  re- 
moved from  your  sour  parochial  or  state-gatherers,  —  those  ink- 
horn  varlets,  who  carry  their  want  of  welcome  in  their  faces ! 
He  cometh  to  you  with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you  with  no 
receipt ;  confining  himself  to  no  set  season.  Every  day  is  his 
Candlemas,  or  his  Feast  of  Holy  Michael.  He  applieth  the 
Icnc  tonncntuin  of  a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse,  —  which  to 
that  gentle  warmth  expands  her  silken  leaves,  as  naturally  as 
the  cloak  of  the  traveller,  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended  ! 
He  is  the  true  Propontic  which  never  ebbeth  !  The  sea  which 
taketh  handsomely  at  each  man's  hand.  In  vain  the  victim, 
whom  he  delighteth  to  honour,  struggles  with  destiny ;   he  is 


222  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

in  the  net.  Lend  therefore  cheerfully,  O  man  ordained  to  lend 
—  that  thou  lose  not  in  the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny,  the 
reversion  promised.  Combine  not  preposterously  in  thine  own 
person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and  of  Dives!  —  but,  when  thou 
seest  the  proper  authority  coming,  meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were 
half-way.  Come,  a  handsome  sacrifice  !  See  how  light  Jic  makes 
of  it !    Strain  not  courtesies  with  a  noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon  my  mind  by 
the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph  Bigod,  Esq.,  who  departed 
this  life  on  Wednesday  evening ;  dying,  as  he  had  lived,  without 
much  trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a  descendant  from  mighty 
ancestors  of  that  name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in 
this  realm.  In  his  actions  and  sentiments  he  belied  not  the 
stock  to  which  he  pretended.  Early  in  life  he  found  himself 
invested  with  ample  revenues  ;  which,  with  that  noble  disinter- 
estedness which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent  in  men  of  the  great 
race,  he  took  almost  immediate  measures  entirely  to  dissipate 
and  bring  to  nothing  :  for  there  is  something  revolting  in  the 
idea  of  a  king  holding  a  private  purse ;  and  the  thoughts 
of  Bigod  were  all  regal.  Thus  furnished,  by  the  very  act  of 
disfurnishment ;  getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome  luggage  of 
riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge, 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  set  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great  enterprise, 
"  borrowing  and  to  borrow  !  " 

In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress  throughout  this 
island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a  tithe  part  of  the 
inhabitants  under  contribution.  I  reject  this  estimate  as  greatly 
exaggerated  :  —  but  having  had  the  honour  of  accompanying 
my  friend,  divers  times,  in  his  perambulations  about  this  vast 
city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with  the  prodigious 
number  of  faces  we  met,  who  claimed  a  sort  of  respectful  ac- 
quaintance with  us.  He  was  one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain 
the  phenomenon.    It  seems,  these  were  his  tributaries  ;  feeders 


CHARLES  LAMB  223 

of  his  exchequer ;  gentlemen,  his  good  friends  (as  he  was 
pleased  to  express  himself),  to  whom  he  had  occasionally  been 
beholden  for  a  loan.  Their  multitudes  did  no  way  disconcert 
him.  He  rather  took  a  pride  in  numbering  them  ;  and,  with 
Comus,  seemed  pleased  to  be  "  stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  contrived  to  keep 
his  treasury  always  empty.  He  did  it  by  force  of  an  aphorism, 
which  he  had  often  in  his  mouth,  that  "money  kept  longer 
than  three  days  stinks."  So  he  made  use  of  it  while  it  was 
fresh.  A  good  part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent 
toss-pot),  some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw  away,  literally 
tossing  and  hurling  it  violently  from  him  —  as  boys  do  burrs, 
or  as  if  it  had  been  infectious,  —  into  ponds  or  ditches,  or  deep 
holes,  —  inscrutable  cavities  of  the  earth  ;  —  or  he  would  bury 
it  (where  he  would  never  seek  it  again)  by  a  river's  side  under 
some  bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously  observe)  paid  no  in- 
terest —  but  out  away  from  him  it  must  go  peremptorily,  as 
Hagar's  offspring  into  the  wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He 
never  missed  it.  The  streams  were  perennial  which  fed  his 
fisc.  When  new  supplies  became  necessary,  the  first  person 
that  had  the  felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger,  was 
sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency.  For  Bigod  had  an  7indc- 
niable  way  with  him.  He  had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick 
jovial  eye,  a  bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  grey  {cana  fides). 
He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and  found  none.  And,  waiving  for 
a  while  my  theory  as  to  the  great  race,  I  would  put  it  to  the 
most  untheorising  reader,  who  may  at  times  have  disposable 
coin  in  his  pocket,  whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the 
kindliness  of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I  am  describ- 
ing, than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  petitionary  rogue  (your  bastard 
borrower),  who,  by  his  mumping  visnomy,  tells  you  that  he 
expects  nothing  better ;  and,  therefore,  whose  precgnceived 
notions  and  expectations  you  do  in  reality  so  much  less  shock 
in  the  refusal. 

When  I  think  of  this  man  ;  his  fiery  glow  of  heart ;  his 
swell  of  feeling ;  how  magnificent,  how  ideal  he  was ;  how  great 


224  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

at  the  midnight  hour  ;  and  when  I  compare  with  him  the  com- 
panions with  whom  I  have  associated  since,  I  grudge  the  sav- 
ing of  a  few  idle  ducats,  and  think  that  1  am  fallen  into  the 
society  of  lenders,  and  little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,  whose  treasures  are  rather  cased  in  leather 
covers  than  closed  in  iron  coffers,  there  is  a  class  of  alienators 
more  formidable  than  that  which  I  have  touched  upon  ;  I  mean 
your  bof'rozi'crs  of  books  —  those  mutilators  of  collections,  spoil- 
ers of  the  symmetry  of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  volumes. 
There  is  Comberbatch,  matchless  in  his  depredations  ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you,  like  a  great 
eye-tooth  knocked  out — (you  are  now  with  me  in  my  little  back 
study  in  Bloomsbury,  reader !)  —  with  the  huge  Switzer-like 
tomes  on  each  side  (like  the  Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed 
posture,  guardant  of  nothing)  once  held  the  tallest  of  my  folios, 
Opera  Bonavciitjinc,  choice  and  massy  divinity,  to  which  its  two 
supporters  (school  divinity  also,  but  of  a  lesser  calil)re,  —  Bel- 
larmine,  and  Holy  Thomas),  showed  but  as  dwarfs,  —  itself  an 
Ascapart !  —  that  Comberbatch  abstracted  upon  the  faith  of  a 
theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy,  I  confess,  for  me  to  suffer 
by  than  to  refute,  namely,  that  "  the  title  to  property  in  a  book 
(my  Bonaventure,  for  instance),  is  in  exact  ratio  to  the  claim- 
ant's powers  of  understanding  and  appreciating  the  same." 
Should  he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of  our  shelves 
is  safe  .'' 

The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left  hand  case  —  two  shelves  from 
the  ceiling  —  scarcely  distinguishable  but  by  the  quick  eye  of  a 

loser was  whilom  the  commodious  resting-place  of  Brown 

on  Urn  Burial.  C.  will  hardly  allege  that  he  knows  more  about 
that  treatise  than  I  do,  who  introduced  it  to  him,  and  was  in- 
deed the  first  (of  the  moderns)  to  discover  its  beauties  —  but  so 
have  I  known  a  foolish  lover  to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  rival  more  qualified  to  carry  her  off  than  himself.  — 
Just  below,  Dodsley's  dramas  want  their  fourth  volume,  where 
Vittona  Coronibona  is  !  The  remainder  nine  are  as  distasteful 
as  Priam's  refuse  sons,  when  the  Fates  borrozved  Hector,   Here 


CHARLES  LAMB  225 

stood  the  Anatomy  of  MclaiicJioly,  in  sober  state.  —  There  loi- 
tered TJie  Complete  Angler;  quiet  as  in  hfe,  by  some  stream 
side,  —  In  yonder  nook,  JoJin  Bnnelc,  a  widower-volume,  with 
"eyes  closed,"  mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he  sometimes,  like 
the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treasure,  at  another  time,  sea-like,  he 
throws  up  as  rich  an  equivalent  to  match  it.  I  have  a  small 
under-collection  of  this  nature  (my  friend's  gatherings  in  his 
various  calls),  picked  up,  he  has  forgotten  at  what  odd  places, 
and  deposited  with  as  little  memory  at  mine.  I  take  in  these 
orphans,  the  twice-deserted.  These  proselytes  of  the  gate  are 
welcome  as  the  true  Hebrews.  There  they  stand  in  conjunc- 
tion ;  natives,  and  naturalised.  The  latter  seemed  as  little  dis- 
posed to  inquire  out  their  true  lineage  as  I  am.  —  I  charge  no 
warehouse-room  for  these  deodands,  nor  shall  ever  put  myself 
to  the  ungentlemanly  trouble  of  advertising  a  sale  of  them  to 
pay  expenses. 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense  and  meaning  in 
it.  You  are  sure  that  he  will  make  one  hearty  meal  on  your 
viands,  if  he  can  give  no  account  of  the  platter  after  it.  But 
what  moved  thee,  wayward,  spiteful  K.,  to  be  so  importunate 
to  carry  off  with  thee,  in  spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to  thee 
to  forbear,  the  Letters  of  that  princely  woman,  the  thrice  noble 
Margaret  Newcastle  }  —  knowing  at  the  time,  and  knowing  that 
I  knew  also,  thou  most  assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over  one 
leaf  of  the  illustrious  folio  :  —  what  but  the  mere  spirit  of 
contradiction,  and  childish  love  of  getting  the  better  of  thy 
friend.? — Then,  worst  cut  of  all!  to  transport  it  with  thee 
to  the  Galilean  land  — 

Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness, 

A  virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt, 

Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her  sex's  wonder ! 

—  hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books  of  jests  and  fan- 
cies, about  thee,  to  keep  thee  merry,  even  as  thou  keepest  all 
companies  with  thy  quips  and  mirthful  tales?  —  Child  of  the 


226  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Green-room,  it  was  unkindly  done  of  thee.  Thy  wife,  too,  that 
partTn'eneh,  better-part  Englishwoman! — that  she  could  fix 
upon  no  other  treatise  to  bear  away  in  kindly  token  of  remem- 
bering us,  than  the  works  of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook  —  of 
which  no  Frenchman,  nor  woman  of  France,  Italy,  or  England, 
was  ever  by  nature  constituted  to  comprehend  a  tittle!  Was 
there  not  Zivivicrmaii  on  Solitude  ? 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a  moderate  collection, 
be  shy  of  showing  it ;  or  if  thy  heart  overfioweth  to  lend  them, 
lend  thy  books  ;  but  let  it  be  to  such  a  one  as  S.  T.  C.  —  he 
will  return  them  (generally  anticipating  the  time  appointed) 
with  usury  ;  enriched  with  annotations,  tripling  their  value.  I 
have  had  experience.  Many  are  these  precious  MSS.  of  his  — 
(in  matter  oftentimes,  and  almost  in  qjLantity  not  infrequently, 
vying  with  the  originals)  —  in  no  very  clerkly  hand  —  legible 
in  my  Daniel ;  in  old  Burton  ;  in  Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  and 
those  abstruser  cogitations  of  the  Greville,  now,  alas  I  wander- 
ing in  Pagan  lands  —  I  counsel  thee,  shut  not  thy  heart,  nor 
thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 

IMPERFECT  SYMPATHIES 

London  Magazine,  August,  1821 

I  am  of  a  constitution  so  general,  that  it  consorts  and  sympathiseth  with  all 
things ;  I  have  no  antipathy,  or  rather  idiosyncrasy  in  anything.  Those  national 
repugnances  do  not  touch  me,  nor  do  I  behold  with  prejudice  the  French, 
Italian,  Spaniard,  or  Dutch.  —  Keligio  Meitici 

That  the  author  of  the  Religio  Medici,  mounted  upon  the 
airy  stilts  of  abstraction,  conversant  about  notional  and  conjec- 
tural essences  ;  in  whose  categories  of  Being  the  possible  took 
the  upper  hand  of  the  actual ;  should  have  overlooked  the  im- 
pertinent individualities  of  such  poor  concretions  as  mankind, 
is  not  much  to  be  admired.  It  is  rather  to  be  wondered  at, 
that  in  the  genus  of  animals  he  should  have  condescended  to 
distinguish  that  species  at  all.  I"or  myself  —  earth-bound  and 
fettered  to  the  scene  of  my  activities,  — 

Standing  on  earth,  not  rapt  above  the  sky. 


CHARLES   LAMB  227 

I  confess  that  I  do  feel  the  differences  of  mankind,  national 
or  individual,  to  an  unhealthy  excess.  I  can  look  with  no  in- 
different eye  upon  things  or  persons.  Whatever  is,  is  to  me 
a  matter  of  taste  or  distaste ;  or  when  once  it  becomes  indif- 
ferent, it  begins  to  be  disrelishing.  I  am,  in  plainer  words,  a 
bundle  of  prejudices  —  made  up  of  likings  and  dislikings  — 
the  veriest  thrall  to  sympathies,  apathies,  antipathies.  In  a 
certain  sense,  I  hope  it  may  be  said  of  me  that  I  am  a  lover 
of  my  species.  I  can  feel  for  all  indifferently,  but  I  cannot  feel 
towards  all  equally.  The  more  purely-English  word  that  ex- 
presses sympathy  will  better  explain  my  meaning.  I  can  be  a 
friend  to  a  worthy  man,  who  upon  another  account  cannot  be 
my  mate  or  fellow.     I  cannot  like  all  people  alike. ^ 

I  have  been  tiying  all  my  life  to  like  Scotchmen,  and  am 
obliged  to  desist  from  the  experiment  in  despair.  They  can- 
not like  me  —  and  in  truth,  I  never  knew  one  of  that  nation 
who  attempted  to  do  it.  There  is  something  rriore  plain  and 
ingenuous  in  their  mode  of  proceeding.  We  know  one  another 
at  first  sight.  There  is  an  order  of  imperfect  intellects  (under 
which  mine  must  be  content  to  rank)  which  in  its  constitution 

^  I  would  be  understood  as  confining  myself  to  the  subject  of  impe7-fect  sym- 
pathies. To  nations  or  classes  of  men  there  can  be  no  direct  antipathy.  There 
may  be  individuals  born  and  constellated  so  opposite  to  another  individual 
nature,  that  the  same  sphere  cannot  hold  them.  I  have  met  with  my  moral 
antipodes,  and  can  believe  the  story  of  two  persons  meeting  (who  never  saw 
one  another  before  in  their  lives)  and  instantly  fighting. 

We  by  proof  find  there  should  be 


'Twixt  man  and  man  such  an  antipathy, 
That  though  he  can  show  no  just  reason  why 
For  any  former  wrong  or  injury. 
Can  neither  find  a  blemish  in  his  fame, 
Nor  aught  in  face  or  feature  justly  blame, 
Can  challenge  or  accuse  him  of  no  evil, 
Yet  notwithstanding  hates  him  as  a  devil. 

The  lines  are  from  old  Ileywood's  Ilierarchie  of  Angels,  and  he  subjoins  a 
curious  story  in  confirmation,  of  a  Spaniard  who  attempted  to  assassinate  a 
King  Ferdinand  of  Spain,  and  being  put  to  the  rack  could  give  no  other  reason 
for  the  deed  but  an  inveterate  antipathy  which  he  had  taken  to  the  first  sight 
of  the  King. 

^  The  cause  which  to  that  act  compell'd  him 

Was,  he  ne'er  loved  him  since  he  first  beheld  him. 


228  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

is  essentially  anti-Caledonian.  The  owners  of  the  sort  of  facul- 
ties I  allude  to  have  minds  rather  suggestive  than  comprehen- 
sive. They  have  no  pretences  to  much  clearness  or  precision 
in  their  ideas,  or  in  their  manner  of  expressing  them.  Their 
intellectual  wardrobe  (to  confess  fairly)  has  few  whole  pieces 
in  it.  They  are  content  with  fragments  and  scattered  pieces  of 
Truth.  She  presents  no  full  front  to  them  —  a  feature  or  side- 
face  at  the  most.  Hints  and  glimpses,  germs  and  crude  essays 
at  a  system,  is  the  utmost  they  pretend  to.  They  beat  up  a 
little  game  peradventure  —  and  leave  it  to  knottier  heads,  more 
robust  constitutions,  to  run  it  down.  The  light  that  lights  them 
is  not  steady  and  polar,  but  mutable  and  shifting :  waxing,  and 
again  waning.  Their  conversation  is  accordingly.  They  will 
throw  out  a  random  word  in  or  out  of  season,  and  be  content 
to  let  it  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  They  cannot  speak  always 
as  if  they  were  upon  their  oath  —  but  must  be  understood, 
speaking  or  writing,  with  some  abatement.  They  seldom  wait 
to  mature  a  proposition,  but  e'en  bring  it  to  market  in  the 
green  ear.  They  delight  to  impart  their  defective  discoveries 
as  they  arise,  without  waiting  for  their  full  development.  They 
are  no  systematisers,  and  would  but  err  more  by  attempting  it. 
Their  minds,  as  I  said  before,  are  suggestive  merely.  The 
brain  of  a  true  Caledonian  (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  is  consti- 
tuted upon  quite  a  different  plan.  His  Minerva  is  born  in 
panoply.  You  are  never  admitted  to  see  his  ideas  in  their 
growth  —  if,  indeed,  they  do  grow,  and  are  not  rather  put 
together  upon  principles  of  clockwork.  You  never  catch  his 
mind  in  an  undress.  He  never  hints  or  suggests  any  thing,  but 
unlades  his  stock  of  ideas  in  perfect  order  and  completeness. 
He  brings  his  total  wealth  into  company,  and  gravely  unpacks 
it.  His  riches  are  always  about  him.  He  never  stoops  to  catch 
a  glittering  something  in  your  presence,  to  share  it  with  you, 
before  he  quite  knows  whether  it  be  true  touch  or  not.  You 
cannot  cry  halves  to  any  thing  that  he  finds.  He  does  not 
find,  but  bring.  You  never  witness  his  first  apprehension  of 
a  thing.     His  understanding  is  always  at  its  meridian  —  you 


CHARLES  LAMB  229 

never  see  the  first  dawn,  the  early  streaks.  —  He  has  no 
falterings  of  self-suspicion.  Surmises,  guesses,  misgivings, 
half-intuitions,  semi-consciousnesses,  partial  illuminations,  dim 
^instincts,  embryo  conceptions,  have  no  place  in  his  brain,  or 
vocabulary.  The  twilight  of  dubiety  never  falls  upon  him.  Is 
he  orthodox  —  he  has  no  doubts.  Is  he  an  infidel  —  he  has 
none  either.  Between  the  affirmative  and  the  negative  there 
is  no  border-land  with  him.  You  cannot  hover  with  him  upon 
the  confines  of  truth,  or  wander  in  the  maze  of  a  probable 
argument.  He  always  keeps  the  path.  You  cannot  make 
excursions  with  him  —  for  he  sets  you  right.  His  taste  never 
fluctuates.  His  morality  never  abates.  He  cannot  compromise, 
or  understand  middle  actions.  There  can  be  but  a  right  and 
a  wrong.  His  conversation  is  as  a  book.  His  affirmations 
have  the  sanctity  of  an  oath.  You  must  speak  upon  the  square 
with  him.  He  stops  a  metaphor  like  a  suspected  person  in  an 
enemy's  country.  "  A  healthy  book  !  "  —  said  one  of  his  coun- 
trymen to  me,  who  had  ventured  to  give  that  appellation  to 
JoJm  B uncle,  —  "did  I  catch  rightly  what  you  said.?  I  have 
heard  of  a  man  in  health,  and  of  a  healthy  state  of  body,  but 
I  do  not  see  how  that  epithet  can  be  properly  applied  to  a 
book."  Above  all,  you  must  beware  of  indirect  expressions 
before  a  Caledonian.  Clap  an  extinguisher  upon  your  irony, 
if  you  are  unhappily  blest  with  a  vein  of  it.  Remember  you 
are  upon  your  oath.    I  have  a  print  of  a  graceful  female  after 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  I  was  showing  off  to  Mr.  . 

After  he  had  examined  it  minutely,  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how 
he  liked  mv  ijeautv  (a  foolish  name  it  goes  by  among  my 
friends) — when  he  very  gravely  assured  me  that  "he  had 
considerable  respect  for  my  character  and  talents  "  (so  he  was 
pleased  to  say),  "but  had  not  given  himself  much  thought 
about  the  degree  of  my  personal  pretensions.'"  The  miscon- 
ception staggered  me,  but  did  not  seem  much  to  disconcert 
him,  —  Persons  of  this  nation  are  particularly  fond  of  affirming 
a  truth  —  which  nobody  doubts.  They  do  not  so  properly 
affirm,  as  annunciate  it.    They  do  indeed  appear  to  have  such 


230  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

a  love  of  truth  (as  if,  like  virtue,  it  were  valuable  for  itself) 
that  all  truth  becomes  equally  valuable,  whether  the  proposition 
that  contains  it  be  new  or  old,  disputed,  or  such  as  is  impos- 
sible to  become  a  subject  of  disputation.  I  was  present  not  long, 
since  at  a  party  of  North  Britons,  where  a  son  of  Burns  was 
expected ;  and  happened  to  drop  a  silly  expression  (in  my 
South  British  way),  that  I  wished  it  were  the  father  instead 
of  the  son  —  when  four  of  them  started  up  at  once  to  inform 
me  that  "  that  was  impossible,  because  he  was  dead."  An 
impracticable  wish,  it  seems,  was  more  than  they  could  con- 
ceive. Swift  has  hit  off  this  part  of  their  character,  namely 
their  love  of  truth,  in  his  biting  way,  but  with  an  illiberality 
that  necessarily  confines  the  passages  to  the  margin.^  The 
tediousness  of  these  people  is  certainly  provoking.  I  wonder 
if  they  ever  tire  one  another !  —  In  my  early  life  I  had  a  pas- 
sionate fondness  for  the  poetry  of  Burns.  I  have  sometimes 
foolishly  hoped  to  ingratiate  myself  with  his  countrymen  by  ex- 
pressing it.  But  I  have  always  found  that  a  true  Scot  resents 
your  admiration  of  his  compatriot,  even  more  than  he  would 
your  contempt  of  him.  The  latter  he  imputes  to  your  "  im- 
perfect acquaintance  with  many  of  the  words  which  he  uses  "  ; 
and  the  same  objection  makes  it  a  presumption  in  you  to  sup- 
pose that  you  can  admire  him.  —  Thomson  they  seem  to  have 
forgotten.  Smollett  they  have  neither  forgotten  nor  forgiven 
for  his  delineation  of  Rory  and  his  companion,  upon  their  first 
introduction  to  our  metropolis.  —  Speak  of  Smollett  as  a  great 
genius,  and  they  will  retort  upon  you  Hume's  History  com- 
pared with  his  Continuation  of  it.  What  if  the  historian  had 
continued  Humphrey  Clinker  1 

1  There  are  some  people  who  think  they  sufficiently  acquit  themselves  and 
entertain  their  company,  with  relating  facts  of  no  consequence,  not  at  all  out^ 
of  the  road  of  such  common  incidents  as  happen  every  day ;  and  this  I  have 
observed  more  frequently  among  the  Scots  than  any  other  nation,  who  are  very 
careful  not  to  omit  the  minutest  circumstances  of  time  or  place ;  which  kind 
of  discourse,  if  it  were  not  a  little  relieved  by  the  uncouth  terms  and  phrases, 
as  well  as  accent  and  gesture  peculiar  to  that  country,  would  be  hardly  tolerable. 
—  Hints  towards  an  Essay  o)i  Conversation. 


CHARLES  LAMB  231 

I  have,  in  the  abstract,  no  disrespect  for  Jews.  They  are  a 
piece  of  stubborn  antiquity,  compared  with  which  Stonehenge 
is  in  its  nonage.  They  date  beyond  the  pyramids.  But  I 
should  not  care  to  be  in  habits  of  famihar  intercourse  with 
any  of  that  nation.  I  confess  that  I  have  not  the  nerves  to 
enter  their  synagogues.  Old  prejudices  cling  about  me.  I 
cannot  shake  off  the  story  of  Hugh  of  Lincoln.  Centuries 
of  injury,  contempt,  and  hate,  on  the  one  side,  —  of  cloaked 
revenge,  dissimulation,  and  hate,  on  the  other,  between  our 
and  their  fathers,  must,  and  ought  to  affect  the  blood  of  the 
children.  I  cannot  believe  it  can  run  clear  and  kindly  yet ;  or 
that  a  few  fine  words,  such  as  candour,  liberality,  the  light  of 
a  nineteenth  century,  can  close  up  the  breaches  of  so  deadly 
a  disunion,  A  Hebrew  is  nowhere  congenial  to  me.  He  is 
least  distasteful  on  'Change  —  for  the  mercantile  spirit  levels 
all  distinctions,  as  all  are  beauties  in  the  dark.  I  boldly 
confess  that  I  do  not  relish  the  approximation  of  Jew  and 
Christian,  which  has  become  so  fashionable.  The  reciprocal 
endearments  have,  to  me,  something  hypocritical  and  unnat- 
ural in  them.  I  do  not  like  to  see  the  Church  and  Synagogue 
kissing  and  congeeing  in  awkward  postures  of  an  affected 
civility.  If  tJiey  are  converted,  why  do  they  not  come  over  to 
us  altogether .?  Why  keep  up  a  form  of  separation,  when  the 
life  of  it  is  fled  ?  If  they  can  sit  with  us  at  table,  why  do 
they  keck  at  our  cookery .?  I  do  not  understand  these  half 
convertites.  Jews  christianising  —  Christians  judaising  —  puz- 
zle me.  I  like  fish  or  flesh.  A  moderate  Jew  is  a  more  con- 
founding piece  of  anomaly  than  a  wet  Quaker.    The  spirit  of 

the   synagogue   is   essentially  separative.     B •  would   have 

been  more  in  keeping  if  he  had  abided  by  the  faith  of  his 
forefathers.  There  is  a  fine  scorn  in  his  face,  which  nature 
meant  to  be  of  —  Christians.  The  Hebrew  spirit  is  strong 
in  him,  in  spite  of  his  proselytism.  He  cannot  conquer  the 
Shibboleth.  How  it  breaks  out,  when  he  sings,  "  The  Chil- 
dren of  Israel  passed  through  the  Red  Sea  !  "  The  auditors, 
for  the  moment,  are  as  Eg}^ptians  to  him,  and  he  rides  over 


232  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

our  necks  in  triumph.    There  is  no  mistaking  him.  —  B 

has  a  strong  expression  of  sense  in  his  countenance,  and  it  is 
confirmed  by  his  singing.  The  foundation  of  his  vocal  excel- 
lence is  sense.  He  sings  with  understanding,  as  Kemble  de- 
livered dialogue.  He  would  sing  the  Commandments,  and 
give  an  appropriate  character  to  each  prohibition.  His  nation, 
in  general,  have  not  over-sensible  countenances.  How  should 
they .?  —  but  you  seldom  see  a  silly  expression  among  them. 
Gain,  and  the  pursuit  of  gain,  sharpen  a  man's  visage.  I 
never  heard  of  an  idiot  being  born  among  them.  —  Some 
admire  the  Jewish  female  physiognomy.  I  admire  it  —  but 
with  trembling.    Jael  had  those  full  dark  inscrutable  eyes. 

In  the  Negro  countenance  you  will  often  meet  with  strong 
traits  of  benignity.  I  have  felt  yearnings  of  tenderness  towards 
some  of  these  faces  —  or  rather  masks  —  that  have  looked  out 
kindly  upon  one  in  casual  encounters  in  the  streets  and  high- 
ways, I  love  what  Fuller  beautifully  calls  —  these  "images  of 
God  cut  in  ebony."  But  I  should  not  like  to  associate  with 
them,  to  share  my  meals  and  my  good-nights  with  them  — 
because  they  are  black. 

I  love  Quaker  ways,  and  Quaker  worship.  I  venerate  the 
Quaker  principles.  It  does  me  good  for  the  rest  of  the  day 
when  I  meet  any  of  their  people  in  my  path.  When  I  am 
ruffled  or  disturbed  by  any  occurrence,  the  sight,  or  quiet 
voice  of  a  Quaker,  acts  upon  me  as  a  ventilator,  lightening 
the  air,  and  taking  off  a  load  from  the  bosom.  But  I  cannot 
like  the  Quakers  (as  Desdemona  would  say)  "to  live  with 
them."  I  am  all  over  sophisticated  —  with  humours,  fancies, 
craving  hourly  sympathy,  I  must  have  books,  pictures,  thea- 
tres, chit-chat,  scandal,  jokes,  ambiguities,  and  a  thousand 
whim- whams,  which  their  simpler  taste  can  do  without,  I 
should  starve  at  their  primitive  banquet.  My  appetites  are  too 
high  for  the  salads  which  (according  to  Evelyn)  Eve  dressed 
for  the  angel,  my  gusto  too  excited 

To  sit  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse. 


CHARLES  LAMB  233 

The  indirect  answers  which  Quakers  are  often  found  to 
return  to  a  question  put  to  them  may  be  explained,  I  think, 
without  the  vulgar  assumption  that  they  are  more  given  to 
evasion  and  equivocating  than  other  people.  They  naturally 
look  to  their  words  more  carefully,  and  are  more  cautious 
of  committing  themselves.  They  have  a  peculiar  character  to 
keep  up  on  this  head.  They  stand  in  a  manner  upon  their 
veracity.  A  Quaker  is  by  law  exempted  from  taking  an  oath. 
The  custom  of  resorting  to  an  oath  in  extreme  cases,  sanc- 
tified as  it  is  by  all  religious  antiquity,  is  apt  (it  must  be  con- 
fessed) to  introduce  into  the  laxer  sort  of  minds  the  notion  of 
two  kinds  of  truth  —  the  one  applicable  to  the  solemn  affairs 
of  justice,  and  the  other  to  the  common  proceedings  of  daily 
intercourse.  As  truth  bound  upon  the  conscience  by  an  oath 
can  be  but  truth,  so  in  the  common  affirmations  of  the  shop 
and  the  market-place  a  latitude  is  expected,  and  conceded 
upon  questions  wanting  this  solemn  covenant.  Something  less 
than  truth  satisfies.  It  is  common  to  hear  a  person  say,  "You 
do  not  expect  me  to  speak  as  if  I  were  upon  my  oath."  Hence 
a  great  deal  of  incorrectness  and  inadvertency,  short  of  false- 
hood, creeps  into  ordinary  conversation  ;  and  a  kind  of  second- 
ary or  laic-truth  is  tolerated,  where  clergy-truth  —  oath-truth, 
by  the  nature  of  the  circumstances,  is  not  required.  A  Quaker 
knows  none  of  this  distinction.  His  simple  affirmation  being 
received,  upon  the  most  sacred  occasions,  without  any  further 
test,  stamps  a  value  upon  the  words  which  he  is  to  use  upon 
the  most  indifferent  topics  of  life.  He  looks  to  them,  natu- 
rally, with  more  severity.  You  can  have  of  him  no  more  than 
his  word.  He  knows,  if  he  is  caught  tripping  in  a  casual 
expression,  he  forfeits,  for  himself,  at  least,  his  claim  to 
the  invidious  exemption.  He  knows  that  his  syllables  are 
weighed  —  and  how  far  a  consciousness  of  this  particular 
watchfulness,  exerted  against  a  person,  has  a  tendency  to  pro- 
duce indirect  answers,  and  a  diverting  of  the  question  by  hon- 
est means  might  be  illustrated,  and  the  practice  justified,  by  a 
more  sacred  example  than  is  proper  to  be  adduced  upon  this 


234  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

occasion.  The  admirable  presence  of  mind,  wliich  is  notorious 
in  Quakers  upon  all  contingencies,  might  be  traced  to  this  im- 
posed self-watchfulness  —  if  it  did  not  seem  rather  an  humble 
and  secular  scion  of  that  old  stock  of  religious  constancy, 
which  never  bent  or  faltered  in  the  Primitive  Friends,  or  gave 
way  to  the  winds  of  persecution,  to  the  violence  of  judge  or 
accuser,  under  trials  and  racking  examinations.  "'  You  will 
never  be  the  wiser,  if  I  sit  here  answering  your  questions  till 
midnight,"  said  one  of  those  upright  Justices  to  Penn,  who 
had  been  putting  law-cases  with  a  puzzling  subtlety.  ""  There- 
after as  the  answers  may  be,"  retorted  the  Quaker,  The  as- 
tonishing composure  of  this  people  is  sometimes  ludicrously 
displayed  in  lighter  instances.  —  I  was  travelling  in  a  stage 
coach  with  three  male  Quakers,  buttoned  up  in  the  straitest 
non-conformity  of  their  sect.  We  stopped  to  bait  at  Andover, 
where  a  meal,  partly  tea  apparatus,  partly  supper,  was  set  be- 
fore us.  My  friends  confined  themselves  to  the  tea-table.  I 
in  my  way  took  supper.  When  the  landlady  brought  in  the 
bill,  the  eldest  of  my  companions  discovered  that  she  had 
charged  for  both  meals.  This  was  resisted.  Mine  hostess  was 
very  clamorous  and  positive.  Some  mild  arguments  were  used 
on  the  part  of  the  Ouakej's,  for  which  the  heated  mind  of  the 
good  lady  seemed  by  no  means  a  fit  recipient.  The  guard 
came  in  with  his  usual  peremptory  notice.  The  Quakers  pulled 
out  their  money,  and  formally  tendered  it  —  so  much  for  tea 
—  I,  in  humble  imitation,  tendering  mine  —  for  the  supper 
which  I  had  taken.  She  would  not  relax  in  her  demand.  So 
they  all  three  quietly  put  up  their  silver,  as  did  myself,  and 
marched  out  of  the  room,  the  eldest  and  gravest  going  first, 
with  myself  closing  up  the  rear,  who  thought  I  could  not  do 
better  than  follow  the  example  of  such  grave  and  warrantable 
personages.  We  got  in.  The  steps  went  up.  The  coach  drove 
off.  The  murmurs  of  mine  hostess,  not  very  indistinctly  or 
ambiguously  pronounced,  became  after  a  time  inaudible  —  and 
now  my  conscience,  which  the  whimsical  scene  had  for  a  while 
suspended,  beginning  to  give  some  twitches,  I  waited,  in  the 


CHARLES   LAMB  235 

hope  that  some  justification  would  be  offered  by  these  serious 
persons  for  the  seeming  injustice  of  their  conduct.  To  my 
great  surprise,  not  a  syllable  was  dropped  on  the  subject. 
They  sat  as  mute  as  at  a  meeting.  At  length  the  eldest  of 
them  broke  silence,  by  inquiring  of  his  next  neighbour,  "  Hast 
thee  heard  how  indigos  go  at  the  India  House.?"  and  the 
question  operated  as  a  soporific  on  my  moral  feeling  as  far 
as  Exeter. 

DREAM-CHILDREN;    A   REVERIE 

Loudon  Magazine,  January,  1822 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders,  when 
tJicy  were  children  ;  to  stretch  their  imagination  to  the  con- 
ception of  a  traditionary  great-uncle  or  grandamc,  whom  they 
never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept  about 
me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their  great-grandmother 
Field,  who  lived  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times 
bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived)  \\hich  had  been 
the  scene  —  so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed  in  that  part 
of  the  country  —  of  the  tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately 
become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the 
Wood.  Certain  it  is  that  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and 
their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon 
the  chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story  down  to 
the  Robin  Redbreasts,  till  a  foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down 
to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with 
no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her  dear  mother's 
looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  upbraiding^  Then  I  w^ent  on 
to  say,  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great-grandmother 
FieM  was,  how  beloved  and  respected  by  every  body,  though 
she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had 
only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  respects  she  might  be 
said  to  be  the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the 
owner,  who  preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable 
mansion  which  he  had  purchased  somew^here  in  the  adjoining 


236  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

county  ;  but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been 
her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort 
while  she  lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was 
nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and 
carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they  were  set 
up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to  carry  away 
the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and  stick 
them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt  drawing-room.  Here  John 
smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "that  would  be  foolish  indeed."^ 
And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was 
attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gen- 
try too,  of  the  neighbourhood  for  many  miles  round,  to  show 
their  respect  for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a 
good  and  religious  woman  ;  so  good  indeed  that  she  knew  all 
the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament 
besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands.  '  Then  I  told 
what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great-grandmother 
Field  once  was  ;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the 
best  dancer — -here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played  an  involun- 
tary movement,  till  upon  my  looking  grave,  it  desisted  —  the 
best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease, 
called  a  cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain  ;  but  it 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop,  but 
they  were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so  good  and  religious.'^ 
Then  I  told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone 
chamber  of  the  great  lone  house  ;  and  how  she  believed  that 
an  apparition  of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  glid- 
ing up  and  down  the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept,  but 
she  said  "  those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm  "  ;  and  how 
frightened  I  used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid 
to  sleep  with  me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  religious 
as  she  —  and  yet  I  never  saw  the  infants.  Here  John  ex- 
panded all  his  eyebrows  and  tried  to  look  courageous.  ^Then 
I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grand-children,  having  us 
to  the  great  house  in  the  holydays,  where  I  in  particular  used 
to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts 


CHARLES  LAMB  237 

of  the  Twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of  Rome,  till 
the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again,  or  I  to  be 
turned  into  marble  with  them  ;  how  I  never  could  be  tired 
with  roaming  about  that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty 
rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and 
carved  oaken  panels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out  — 
sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had 
almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a  solitary  gar- 
dening man  would  cross  me \— and  how  the  nectarines  and 
peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering  to 
pluck  them,  because  they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now 
and  then,  —  and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling 
about  among  the  (jld  melancholy-looking  )ew  trees,  or  the 
firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir  apples,  which 
were  good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at  —  or  in  lying  about  upon 
the  fresh  grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me  — 
or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself 
ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that 
grateful  warmth  —  or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and 
fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here 
and  there  a  great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water 
in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  friskings, 
—  I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle  diversions  than  in 
all  the  sweet  flavours  of  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges,  and  such 
like  common  baits  of  children.  Mere  John  slily  deposited  back 
upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by 
Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and  both  seemed  ^ 
willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as  irrelevant.)!  Then  ^' 
in  somewhat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though 
their  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grand-children,  yet 
in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle, 

John  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a 

youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us  ;  and,  instead  of  moping 
about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount 
the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no 
bigger  than  themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the 


238  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

county  in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were 
any  out  —  and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and  gardens 
too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent  up  within  their 
boundaries  —  and  how  their  uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as 
brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to  the  admiration  of  every  body, 
but  of  their  great-grandmother  Pleld  most  especially ;  and 
how  he  used  to  carry  me  upon  his  back  when  I  was  a  lame- 
footed  boy  —  for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  me  —  many  a 
mile  when  I  could  not  walk  for  pain  ;  —  and  how  in  after  life 
he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make 
allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient,  and  in 
pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had  been 
to  me  when  I  was  lame-footed  ;  fcind  how  when  he  died,  though 
he  had  nOt  been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a 
great  while  ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death ; 
and  how  I  bore  his  death  as  I  thought  pretty  well  at  first,  but 
afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted  me  ;  and  though  I  did  not 
cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would 
have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and 
knew  not  till  then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his 
kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be 
alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  we  quarrelled 
sometimes),  rather  than  not  have  him  again,  and  was  as  un- 
easy without  him,  as  he  their  poor  uncle  must  have  been  when 
the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here  the  children  fell  a  crying, 
and  asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not 
for  uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not  to  go 
on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories  about  their 
pretty  dead  mother,  i  Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years, 
in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever, 

I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n  ;  and,  as  much  as  children 

could  understand,  I  explained  to  them  what  coyness,  and  diffi- 
culty, and  denial  meant  in  maidens  —  when  suddenly,  turning 
to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes 
with  such  a  reality  of  re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt 
which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright 


CHARLES  LAMB  239 

hair  was  ;  and  wliile  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  grad- 
ually grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  receding  till 
nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in  the 
uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely  impressed 
upon  me  the  effects  of  speech  ;  "  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of 
thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice  call 
Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing ;  less  than  nothing,  and 
dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait 
upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before  we 
have  existence,  and  a  name" — -and  immediately  awaking,  I 
found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  armchair,  where 
I  had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by 
my  side  —  but  John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  for  ever. 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

London  Magazine,  May,  1822 

I  like  to  meet  a  sweep  —  understand  me  —  not  a  grown 
sweeper  — old  chimney-sweepers  are  by  no  means  attractive 
—  but  one  of  those  tender  novices,  blooming  through  their 
first  nigritude,  the  maternal  washings  not  quite  effaced  from 
the  cheek  —  such  as  come  forth  with  the  dawn,  or  somewhat 
earlier,  with  their  little  professional  notes  sounding  like  the 
peep  peep  of  a  young  sparrow  ;  or  liker  to  the  matin  lark  should 
I  pronounce  them,  in  their  aerial  ascents  not  seldom  anticipating 
the  sun-rise  .-' 

I  have  a  kindly  yearning  toward  these  dim  specks  —  poor 
blots  —  innocent  blacknesses  — 

I  reverence  these  young  Africans  of  our  own  growth  — 
these  almost  clergy  imps,  who  sport  their  cloth  without  as- 
sumption ;  and  from  their  little  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chimneys), 
in  the  nipping  air  of  a  December  morning,  preach  a  lesson  of 
patience  to  mankind. 

Wlien  a  child,  what  a  mysterious  pleasure  it  was  to  witness 
their  operation  !  to  see  a  chit  no  bigger  than  onc's-self  enter, 


240  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH^IAR  ESSAY 

one  knew  not  by  what  process,  into  what  seemed  the  fauces 
Avcnii  —  to  pursue  him  in  imagination,  as  he  went  sounding 
on  through  so  many  dark  stifling  caverns,  horrid  shades  !  — 
to  shudder  with  the  idea  that  "  now,  surcl}',  he  must  be  lost 
for  ever!  " — to  revive  at  hearing  his  feeble  shout  of  discov- 
ered day-light  —  and  then  (O  fulness  of  delight)  running  out 
of  doors,  to  come  just  in  time  to  see  the  sable  phenomenon 
emerge  in  safety,  the  brandished  weapon  of  his  art  victorious 
like  some  flag  waved  over  a  conquered  citadel !  I  seem  to  re- 
niember  having  been  told  that  a  bad  sweep  was  once  left  in 
a  stack  with  his  brush,  to  indicate  which  way  the  wind  blew. 
It  was  an  awful  spectacle  certainly  ;  not  much  unlike  the  old 
stage  direction  in  Macbeth,  where  the  "Apparition  of  a  child 
crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises." 

Reader,  if  thou  meetest  one  of  these  small  gentry  in  thy 
early  rambles,  it  is  good  to  give  him  a  penny.  It  is  better 
to  give  him  two-pence.  If  it  be  starving  weather,  and  to  the 
proper  troubles  of  his  hard  occupation,  a  pair  of  kibcd  heels 
(no  unusual  accompaniment)  be  superadded,  the  demand  on 
thy  humanity  will  surely  rise  to  a  tester. 

There  is  a  composition,  the  ground-work  of  which  I  have 
understood  to  be  the  sweet  wood  'yclept  sassafras.  This  wood 
boiled  down  to  a  kind  of  tea,  and  tempered  with  an  infusion 
of  milk  and  sugar,  hath  to  some  tastes  a  delicacy  beyond  the 
China  luxury.  I  know  not  how  thy  palate  may  relish  it;  for 
m\self,  with  every  deference  to  the  judicious  Mr.  Read,  who 
hath  time  out  of  mind  kept  open  a  shoj?  (the  only  one  he 
avers  in  London)  for  the  vending  of  this  "  wholesome  and 
pleasant  beverage,"  on  the  south  side  of  Fleet  Street,  as  thou 
approachest  Bridge  Street  —  the  only  Salopian  house,  —  I  have 
never  yet  ventured  to  dip  my  own  particular  lip  in  a  basin  of 
his  commended  ingredients  —  a  cautious  premonition  to  the 
olfactories  constantly  whispering  to  me  that  my  stomach  must 
infallibly,  with  all  due  courtesy,  decline  it.  Yet  I  have  seen 
palates,  otherwise  not  uninstructed  in  dietetical  elegances,  sup 
it  up  with  avidity. 


CHARLES  LAMB  241 

I  know  not  by  what  particular  conformation  of  the  organ  it 
happens,  but  I  have  ahvays  found  that  this  composition  is  sur- 
prisingly gratifying  to  the  palate  of  a  young  chimney-sweeper 

—  whether  the  oily  particles  (sassafras  is  slightly  oleaginous) 
do  attenuate  and  soften  the  fuliginous  concretions,  which  are 
sometimes  found  (in  dissections)  to  adhere  to  the  roof  of  the 
mouth  in  these  unfledged  practitioners  ;  or  whether  Nature, 
sensible  that  she  had  mingled  too  much  of  bitter  wood  in  the 
lot  of  these  raw  victims,  caused  to  grow  out  of  the  earth  her 
sassafras  for  a  sweet  lenitive  —  but  so  it  is,  that  no  possible 
taste  or  odour  to  the  senses  of  a  young  chimney-sweeper  can 
convey  a  delicate  excitement  comparable  to  this  mixture.  Being 
penniless,  they  will  yet  hang  their  black  heads  over  the  ascend- 
ing steam,  to  gratify  one  sense  if  possible,  seemingly  no  less 
pleased  than  those  domestic  animals  —  cats  —  when  they  purr 
over  a  new-found  sprig  of  valerian.  There  is  something  more 
in  these  sympathies  than  philosophy  can  inculcate. 

Now  albeit  Mr.  Read  boasteth,  not  without  reason,  that  his 
is  the  only  Salopian  house  ;   yet  be  it  known  to  thee,  reader 

—  if  thou  art  one  who  keepest  what  are  called  good  hours, 
thou  art  haply  ignorant  of  the  fact  —  he  hath  a  race  of  indus- 
trious imitators,  who  from  stalls,  and  under  open  sky,  dispense 
the  same  savourv  mess  to  humbler  customers,  at  that  dead 
time  of  the  dawn,  when  (as  extremes  meet)  the  rake,  reeling 
home  from  his  midnight  cups,  and  the  hard-handed  artisan 
leaving  his  bed  to  resume  .the  premature  labours  of  the  day, 
jostle,  not  unfrequently  to  the  manifest  disconcerting  of  the 
former,  for  the  honours  of  the  pavement.  It  is  the  time  when, 
in  summer,  between  the  expired  and  the  not  yet  relumined 
kitchen-fires,  the  kennels  of  our  fair  metropolis  give  forth 
their  least  satisfactory  odours.  The  rake,  who  wisheth  to  dis- 
sipate his  o'er-night  vapours  in  more  grateful  coffee,  curses 
the  ungenial  fume,  as  he  passeth  ;  but  the  artisan  stops  to 
taste,   and  blesses  the  fragrant  breakfast. 

This  is  Saloop  —  the  precocious  herb-woman's  darling  — 
the  delight  of  the  early  gardener,  who  transports  his  smoking 


242  THE  ENGLISH   FA^^L1AR   KSSAV 

cabbages  by  break  of  da}-  from  Ilanimersniith  to  Covent  Gar- 
den's famed  piazzas  —  the  delight,  and,  oh  I  fear,  too  often 
the  envy,  of  the  unpennied  sweep.  Him  shouldest  thou  haply 
encounter,  with  his  dim  visage  pendent  over  the  grateful  steam, 
regale  him  with  a  sumptuous  basin  (it  will  cost  thee  but  three 
half-pennies)  and  a  slice  of  delicate  bread  and  butter  (an  added 
halfpenny)  —  so  may  thy  culinary  fires,  eased  of  the  o'er-charged 
secretions  from  thy  worse-placed  hospitalities,  curl  up  a  lighter 
volume  to  the  welkin  —  so  may  the  descending  soot  never 
taint  thy  costly  well-ingredienced  soups  —  nor  the  odious  cry, 
quick-reaching  from  street  to  street,  of  the  fired  cJiimncy,  in- 
vite the  rattling  engines  from  ten  adjacent  parishes,  to  disturb 
for  a  casual  scintillation  thy  peace  and  pocket ! 

I  am  by  nature  extremely  susceptible  of  street  affronts  ;  the 
jeers  and  taunts  of  the  populace  ;  the  low-bred  triumph  they 
display  over  the  casual  trip,  or  splashed  stocking,  of  a  gentle- 
man. Yet  can  I  endure  the  jocularity  of  a  }-oung  sweep  with 
something  more  than  forgiveness.  —  In  the  last  winter  but 
one,  pacing  along  Cheapsidc  with  my  accustomed  precipitation 
when  I  walk  westward,  a  treacherous  slide  brought  me  upon 
my  back  in  an  instant.  I  scrambled  up  with  pain  and  shame 
enough  —  yet  outwardly  trying  to  face  it  down,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  —  when  the  roguish  grin  of  one  of  these  young 
wits  encountered  me.  There  he  stood,  pointing  me  out  with 
his  dusky  finger  to  the  mob,  and  to  a  poor  woman  (I  suppose 
his  mother)  in  particular,  till  the  tears  for  the  exquisiteness  of 
the  fun  (so  he  thought  it)  worked  themselves  out  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  poor  red  eyes,  red  from  many  a  previous  weeping, 
and  soot-inflamed,  yet  twinkling  through  all  with  such  a  joy, 
snatched  out  of  desolation,  that  Hogarth  —  but  Hogarth  has 
got  him  already  (how.  could  he  miss  him  .^ )  in  the  March  to 
Fiiic/ilcY,  grinning  at  the  pie-man  —  there  he  stood,  as  he 
stands  in  the  picture,  irremovable,  as  if  the  jest  was  to  last  for 
ever  —  with  such  a  maximum  of  glee,  and  minimum  of  mis- 
chief, in  his  mirth  —  for  the  grin  of  a  genuine  sweep  hath  ab- 
solutclv  no  malice  in  it  —  that  I  could  have  been  content,  if 


CHARLES  LAMB  243 

the  honour  of  a  gentleman  might  endure  it,  to  have  remained 
his  butt  and  his  mockery  till  midnight, 

I  am  by  theory  obdurate  to  the  seductiveness  of  what  are 
called  a  fine  set  of  teeth.  Every  pair  of  rosy  lips  (the  ladies 
must  pardon  me)  is  a  casket,  presumably  holding  such  jewels ; 
but,  methinks,  they  should  take  leave  to  "  air  "  them  as  frugally 
as  possible.  The  fine  lady,  or  fine  gentleman,  who  show  me 
their  teeth,  show  me  bones.  Yet  must  I  confess,  that  from 
the  mouth  of  a  true  sweep  a  display  (even  to  ostentation)  of 
those  white  and  shining  ossifications  strikes  me  as  an  agree- 
able anomaly  in  manners,  and  an  allowable  piece  of  foppery. 

It  is,  as  when 

A  sable  cloud 
Turns  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night. 

It  is  like  some  remnant  of  gentry  not  quite  extinct ;  a  badge 
of  better  days;  a  hint  of  nobility  :  —  and,  doubtless,  under  the 
obscuring  darkness  and  double  night  of  their  forlorn  disguise- 
ment,  oftentimes  lurketh  good  blood,  and  gentle  conditions, 
derived  from  lost  ancestry,  and  a  lapsed  pedigree.  The  pre- 
mature apprenticements  of  these  tender  victims  give  but  too 
much  encouragement,  I  fear,  to  clandestine,  and  almost  infan- 
tile abductions ;  the  seeds  of  civility  and  true  courtesy,  so  often 
discernible  in  these  young  grafts  (not  otherwise  to  be  accounted 
for)  plainly  hint  at  some  forced  adoptions  ;  many  noble  Rachels 
mourning  for  their  children,  even  in  our  days,  countenance 
the  fact ;  the  tales  of  fairy-spiriting  may  shadow  a  lamentable 
verity,  and  the  recovery  of  the  young  Montagu  be  but  a  sol- 
itary instance  of  good  fortune,  out  of  many  irreparable  and 
hopeless  defiliations. 

In  one  of  the  state-beds  at  Arundel  Castle,  a  few  years 
since  —  under  a  ducal  canopy  —  (that  seat  of  the  Howards  is 
an  object  of  curiosity  to  visitors  chiefly  for  its  beds,  in  which 
the  late  duke  was  especially  a  connoisseur)  —  encircled  with 
curtains  of  delicatest  crimson,  with  starry  coronets  inwoven  — 
folded  between  a  pair  of  sheets  whiter  and  softer  than  the 
lap  w^here  Venus  lulled  Ascanius  —  was  discovered  by  chance, 


244  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

after  all  methods  of  search  had  failed,  at  noon-day,  fast  asleep, 
a  lost  chimney-sweeper.  The  little  creature,  having  somehow 
confounded  his  passage  among  the  intricacies  of  those  lordly 
chimneys,  by  some  unknown  aperture  had  alighted  upon  this 
magnificent  chamber  ;  and,  tired  with  his  tedious  explorations, 
was  unable  to  resist  the  delicious  invitement  to  repose,  which 
he  there  saw  exhibited  ;  so,  creeping  between  the  sheets  very 
quietly,  laid  his  black  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  slept  like  a 
young  Howard. 

Such  is  the  account  given  to  the  visitors  at  the  Castle.  — 
But  I  cannot  help  seeming  to  perceive  a  confirmation  of  wliat 
I  have  just  hinted  at  in  this  story.  A  high  instinct  was  at 
work  in  the  case,  or  I  am  mistaken.  Is  it  probable  that  a 
poor  child  of  that  description,  with  whatever  weariness  he 
might  be  visited,  would  have  ventured,  under  such  a  penalty 
as  he  would  be  taught  to  expect,  to  uncover  the  sheets  of  a 
Duke's  bed,  and  deliberately  to  lay  himself  down  between 
them,  when  the  rug,  or  the  carpet,  presented  an  obvious 
couch,  still  far  above  his  pretensions  —  is  this  probable,  I 
would  ask,  if  the  great  power  of  nature,  which  I  contend  for, 
had  not  been  manifested  within  him,  prompting  to  the  adven- 
ture }  Doubtless  this  young  noblemaii  (for  such  my  mind  mis- 
gives me  that  he  must  be)  was  allured  by  some  memory,  not 
amounting  to  full  consciousness,  of  his  condition  in  infancy, 
when  he  was  used  to  be  lapt  by  his  mother,  or  his  nurse,  in 
just  such  sheets  as  he  there  found,  into  which  he  was  but  now 
creeping  back  as  into  his  proper  incunabula,  and  resting-place. 
—  By  no  other  theory,  than  by  this  sentiment  of  a  pre-existent 
state  (as  I  may  call  it),  can  I  explain  a  deed  so  venturous, 
and,  indeed,  upon  any  other  system,  so  indecorous,  in  this 
tender,  but  unseasonable,  sleeper. 

My  pleasant  friend  Jem  White  was  so  impressed  with  a 
belief  of  metamorphoses  like  this  frequently  taking  place,  that 
in  some  sort  to  reverse  the  wrongs  of  fortune  in  these  poor 
changelings,  he  instituted  an  annual  feast  of  chimney-sweepers, 
at  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  officiate  as  host  and  waiter.    It 


CHARLI'S   LAMB  245 

was  a  solemn  supper  licld  in  Smithfield,  upon  the  yearly 
return  of  the  fair  of  St.  Jiartholomevv.  Cards  were  issued  a 
week  before  to  the  master-sweeps  in  and  about  the  metropo- 
lis, confining  the  invitation  to  their  younger  fry.  Now  and 
then  an  elderly  stripling  would  get  in  among  us,  and  be  good- 
naturedly  winked  at ;  but  our  main  body  were  infantry.  One 
unfortunate  wight,  indeed,  who  relying  upon  his  dusky  suit, 
had  intruded  himself  into  our  party,  but  by  tokens  was  provi- 
dentially discovered  in  time  to  be  no  chimney-sweeper  (all  is 
not  soot  which  looks  so),  was  quoited  out  of  the  presence  with 
universal  indignation,  as  not  having  on  the  wedding  garment ; 
but  in  general  the  greatest  harmony  prevailed.  The  place 
chosen  was  a  convenient  spot  among  the  pens,  at  the  north 
side  of  the  fair,  not  so  far  distant  as  to  be  impervious  to  the 
agreeable  hubbub  of  that  vanity ;  but  remote  enough  not  to  be 
obvious  to  the  interruption  of  eveiy  gaping  spectator  in  it. 
The  guests  assembled  about  seven.  In  those  little  temporary 
parlours  three  tables  were  spread  with  napery,  not  so  fine  as 
substantial,  and  at  every  board  a  comely  hostess  presided  with 
her  pan  of  hissing  sausages.  The  nostrils  of  the  young  rogues 
dilated  at  the  savour.  James  White,  as  head  waiter,  had 
charge  of  the  first  table ;  and  myself,  with  our  trusty  compan- 
ion BiGOD,  ordinarily  ministered  to  the  other  two.  There  was 
clambering  and  jostling,  you  may  be  sure,  who  should  get  at 
the  first  table  —  f.or  Rochester  in  his  maddest  days  could  not 
have  done  the  humours  of  the  scene  with  more  spirit  than 
my  friend.  After  some  general  expression  of  thanks  for  the 
honour  the  company  had  done  him,  his  inaugural  ceremony 
was  to  clasp  the  greasy  waist  of  old  dame  Ursula  (the  fattest 
of  the  three),  that  stood  fr3dng  and  fretting,  half-blessing,  half- 
cursing  "the  gentleman,"  and  imprint  upon  her  chaste  lips  a 
tender  salute,  whereat  the  universal  host  would  set  up  a  shout 
that  tore  the  concave,  while  hundreds  of  grinning  teeth  startled 
the  night  with  their  brightness.  O  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
the  sable  younkers  lick  in  the  unctuous  meat,  with  Jiis  more 
unctuous  sayings  —  how  he  would  fit  the  tit-bits  to  the  puny 


246  THE  ENGLISH  EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

mouths,  reserving  the  lengthier  Hnks  for  the  seniors  —  how 
he  would  intercept  a  morsel  even  in  the  jaws  of  some  young 
desperado,  declaring  it  "  must  to  the  pan  again  to  be  browned, 
for  it  was  not  fit  for  a  gentleman's  eating"  —  how  he  would 
recommend  this  slice  of  white  bread,  or  that  piece  of  kissing- 
crust,  to  a  tender  juvenile,  advising  them  all  to  have  a  care  of 
cracking  their  teeth,  which  were  their  best  patrimony,  —  how 
genteelly  he  would  deal  about  the  small  ale,  as  if  it  were  wine, 
naming  the  brewer,  and  protesting,  if  it  were  not  good  he 
should  lose  their  custom  ;  with  a  special  recommendation  to 
wipe  the  lip  before  drinking.  Then  we  had  our  toasts  —  "The 
King,"  —  the  "Cloth," — which,  whether  they  understood  or 
not,  was  equally  diverting  and  flattering;  —  and  for  a  crown- 
ing sentiment,  which  never  failed,  "  May  the  Brush  supersede 
the  Laurel !  "  All  these,  and  fifty  other  fancies,  which  were 
rather  felt  than  comprehended  by  his  guests,  would  he  utter, 
standing  upon  tables,  and  prefacing  every  sentiment  with  a 
"  Gentlemen,  give  me  leave  to  propose  so  and  so,"  which  was 
a  prodigious  comfort  to  those  young  orphans  ;  every  now  and 
then  stuffing  into  his  mouth  (for  it  did  not  do  to  be  squeamish 
on  these  occasions)  indiscriminate  pieces  of  those  reeking 
sausages,  which  pleased  them  mightily,  and  was  the  savouriest 
part,  you  may  believe,  of  the  entertainment. 

Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust  — 

James  Wihtk  is  extinct,  and  with  him  these  suppers  have 
long  ceased.  He  carried  away  with  him  half  the  fun  of  the 
world  when  he  died  —  of  my  world  at  least.  His  old  clients 
look  for  him  among  the  pens  ;  and,  missing  him,  reproach  the 
altered  feast  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  the  glory  of  Smithfield 
departed  for  ever. 


CHARLES   LAMB  247 

DETACHED  THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS  AND  READLNG 

Lo7idon  Magazine^  July,  1822 

To  mind  the  inside  of  a  book  is  to  entertain  one's  self  with  the  forced 
product  of  another  man's  brain.  Now  I  think  a  man  of  quahty  and  breeding 
may  be  much  amused  with  the  natural  sprouts  of  his  own.  —  Lord  Foppingion 
in  the  Relapse 

An  ingenious  acquaintance  of  my  own  was  so  much  stRick 
with  this  bright  sally  of  his  Lordship,  that  he  has  left  off 
reading  altogether,  to  the  great  improvement  of  his  originality. 
At  the  hazard  of  losing  some  credit  on  this  head,  I  must 
confess  that  I  dedicate  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  my  time 
to  other  people's  thoughts.  I  dream  away  my  life  in  others' 
speculations.  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  other  men's  minds. 
When  I  am  not  walking,  I  am  reading ;  I  cannot  sit  and 
think.    Books  think  for  me. 

I  have  no  repugnances.  Shaftesbury  is  not  too  genteel  for 
me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild  too  low.  I  can  read  anything  which 
I  call  a  book.  There  are  things  in  that  shape  which  I  cannot 
allow  for  such. 

In  this  catalogue  of  books  zvJiicJi  are  no  books  —  biblia  a-bib- 
lia  —  I  reckon  Court  Calendars,  Directories,  Pocket  Books, 
Draught  Boards,  bound  and  lettered  on  the  back.  Scientific 
Treatises,  Almanacks,  Statutes  at  Large  ;  the  works  of  Hume, 
Gibbon,  Robertson,  Beattie,  Soame  Jenyns,  and,  generally,  all 
those  volumes  which  "  no  gentleman's  libraiy  should  be  with- 
out"  :  the  Histories  of  Flavins  Josephus  (that  learned  Jew), 
and  Paley's  Moral  PJdlosopJiy.  With  these  exceptions,  I  can 
read  almost  anything.  I  bless  my  stars  for  a  taste  so  catholic, 
so  unexcluding. 

I  confess  that  it  moves  my  spleen  to  see  these  tilings  in 
books'  clothing  perched  upon  shelves,  like  false  saints,  usurp- 
ers of  true  shrines,  intruders  into  the  sanctuary,  thrusting  out 
the  legitimate  occupants.  To  reach  down  a  well-bound  sem- 
blance of  a  volume,  and  hope  it  is  some  kind-hearted  play- 
book,   then,  opening  what   "  seem   its   leaves,"  to   come   bolt 


248  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

upon  a  withering  Population  Essay.  To  expect  a  Steele,  or  a 
Farquhar,  and  find  —  Adam  Smith.  To  view  a  well-arranged 
assortment  of  blockheaded  Encyclopaedias  (Anglicanas  or  Met- 
ropolitanas)  set  out  in  an  array  of  Russia,  or  Morocco,  when 
a  tithe  of  that  good  leather  would  comfortably  re-clothe  my 
shivering  folios  ;  would  renovate  Paracelsus  himself,  and  enable 
old  Raymund  Lully  to  look  like  himself  again  in  the  world. 
I  never  see  these  impostors,  but  I  long  to  strip  them,  to 
warm  my  ragged  veterans  in  their  spoils. 

To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the  desideratum  of 
a  volume.  Magnificence  comes  after.  This,  when  it  can  be 
afforded,  is  not  to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of  books  indis- 
criminately. I  would  not  dress  a  set  of  Magazines,  for  in- 
stance, in  full  suit.  The  dishabille,  or  half-binding  (with  Russia 
backs  ever)  is  our  costume.  A  Shakspeare,  or  a  Milton  (un- 
less the  first  editions),  it  were  mere  foppery  to  trick  out  in  gay 
apparel.  The  possession  of  them  confers  no  distinction.  The 
exterior  of  them  (the  things  themselves  being  so  common), 
strange  to  say,  raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  tickling  sense  of 
property  in  the  owner.  Thomson's  Seasons,  again,  looks  best 
(I  maintain  it)  a  little  torn,  and  dog's-eared.  How  beautiful  to 
a  genuine  lover  of  reading  are  the  sullied  leaves,  and  wornout 
appearance,  nay,  the  very  odour  (beyond  Russia),  if  we  would 
not  forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidiousness,  of  an  old  "  Circulat- 
ing Library"  Tom  Jones,  or  Hear  of  Wakefield  \  How  they 
speak  of  the  thousand  thumbs,  that  have  turned  over  their 
pages  with  delight !  —  of  the  lone  sempstress,  whom  they  may 
have  cheered  (milliner,  or  harder-working  mantua-maker)  after 
her  long  day's  needle-toil,  running  far  into  midnight,  when 
she  has  snatched  an  hour,  ill-spared  from  sleep,  to  steep  her 
cares,  as  in  some  Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  out  their  enchanting 
contents !  Who  would  have  them  a  whit  less  soiled }  What 
better  condition  could  we  desire  to  see  them  in .? 

In  some  respects  the  better  a  book  is,  the  less  it  demands  from 
binding.  Fielding,  Smollet,  Sterne,  and  all  that  class  of  perpet- 
ually self-reproductive  volumes  —  Great  Nature's  Stereotypes  — 


CHARLES  LAMB  249 

we  see  them  individually  perish  with  less  regret,  because  we 
know  the  copies  of  them  to  be  "eterne."  But  where  a  book  is 
at  once  both  good  and  rare  —  where  the  individual  is  almost 
the  species,  and  when  tliat  perishes. 

We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  torch 
That  can  its  light  relumine  — 

such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the  Duke  of  Neiv- 
castlc,  by  his  Duchess  —  no  casket  is  rich  enough,  no  casing 
sufficiently  durable,  to  honour  and  keep  safe  such  a  jewel. 

Not  only  rare  volumes  of  this  description,  which  seem  hope- 
less ever  to  be  reprinted  ;  but  old  editions  of  writers,  such  as 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  Bishop  Taylor,  Milton  in  his  prose-works, 
Fuller  —  of  whom  we  liave  reprints,  yet  the  books  themselves, 
though  they  go  about,  and  are  talked  of  here  and  there,  we 
know,  have  not  endenizened  themselves  (nor  possibly  ever  will) 
in  the  national  heart,  so  as  to  become  stock  books  —  it  is  good 
to  possess  these  in  durable  and  costly  covers.  I  do  not  care 
for  a  First  Folio  of  Shakspeare.  I  rather  prefer  the  common 
editions  of  Rowc  and  Tonson  without  notes,  and  with  plates, 
which,  being  so  execrably  bad,  serve  as  maps,  or  modest  re- 
membrancers, to  the  text ;  and  without  pretending  to  any 
supposable  emulation  with  it,  are  so  much  better  than  the 
Shakspeare  gallery  engravings,  which  did.  I  have  a  community 
of  feeling  with  my  countrymen  about  his  Plays,  and  I  like  those 
editions  of  him  best  which  have  been  oftenest  tumbled  about 
and  handled.  —  On  the  contrary,  I  cannot  read  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  but  in  Folio.  The  Octavo  editions  are  painful  to  look 
at.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  them.  If  they  were  as  much 
read  as  the  current  editions  of  the  other  poet,  I  should  prefer 
them  in  that  shape  to  the  older  one.  I  do  not  know  a  more 
heartless  sight  than  the  reprint  of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy . 
What  need  was  there  of  unearthing  the  bones  of  that  fantastic 
old  great  man,  to  expose  them  in  a  winding-sheet  of  the  new- 
est fashion  to  modern  censure  1  what  hapless  stationer  could 
dream    of   Burton   ever   becoming  popular  ?  —  The   wretched 


250  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Malonc  could  not  do  worse,  when  he  bribed  the  sexton  of 
Stratford  church  to  let  him  wliite-wash  the  painted  effigy  of 
old  Shakspeare,  which  stood  there,  in  rude  but  lively  fashion 
depicted,  to  the  very  colour  of  the  cheek,  the  eye,  the  eyebrow, 
hair,  the  very  dress  he  used  to  wear  —  the  only  authentic  testi- 
mony we  had,  however  imperfect,  of  these  curious  parts  and 
parcels  of  him.  They  covered  him  over  with  a  coat  of  white 
paint.  By ,  if  I  had  been  a  justice  of  peace  for  Warwick- 
shire, I  would  have  clapt  both  commentator  and  sexton  fast  in 
the  stocks,  for  a  pair  of  meddling  sacrilegious  varlets. 

I  think  I  see  them  at  their  work  —  these  sapient  trouble- 
tombs. 

Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical,  if  I  confess,  that  the  names 
of  some  of  our  poets  sound  sweeter,  and  have  a  finer  relish 
to  the  ear  —  to  mine,  at  least  —  than  that  of  Milton  or  of 
Shakspeare.?  It  may  be  that  the  latter  are  more  staled  and 
rung  upon  in  common  discourse.  The  sweetest  names,  and 
which  carry  a  perfume  in  the  mention,  are  Kit  Marlowe,  Dray- 
ton, Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  Cowley. 

Much  depends  upon  ivJicn  and  ivJicrc  you  read  a  book.  In 
the  five  or  six  impatient  minutes,  before  the  dinner  is  quite 
ready,  who  would  think  of  taking  up  the  Fairy  Queen  for  a 
stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop  Andrewes'  sermons .'' 

Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of  music  to  be  played 
before  you  enter  upon  him.  But  he  brings  his  music,  to  which, 
who  listens,  had  need  bring  docile  thoughts,  and  purged  ears. 

Winter  evenings  —  the  world  shut  out  —  with  less  of  cere- 
mony the  gentle  Shakspeare  enters.  At  such  a  season,  the 
Tempest,  or  his  own    Winters  Tale  — 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading  aloud  —  to  your- 
self, or  (as  it  chances)  to  some  single  person  listening.  More 
than  one  —  and  it  degenerates  into  an  audience. 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for  incidents,  are  for 
the  eye  to  glide  over  only.  It  will  not  do  to  read  them  out. 
I  could  never  listen  to  even  the  better  kind  of  modern  novels 
without  extreme  irksomeness. 


CHARLES   LAMB  251 

A  newspaper,  read  out,  is  intolerable.  In  some  of  the  Bank 
offices 'it  is  the  custom  (to  save  so  much  individual  time)  for 
one  of  the  clerks  —  who  is  the  best  scholar  —  to  commence 
upon  the  Times,  or  the  CJironiclc,  and  recite  its  entire  con- 
tents aloud  pro  bono  publico.  With  every  advantage  of  lungs 
and  elocution,  the  effect  is  singularly  vapid.  In  barbers'  shops 
and  public-houses  a  fellow  will  get  up,  and  spell  out  a  para- 
graph which  he  communicates  as  some  discovery.  Another 
follows  with  Jiis  selection.  So  the  entire  journal  transpires  at 
length  by  piece-meal.  Seldom-readcrs  are  slow  readers,  and 
without  this  expedient  no  one  in  the  company  would  probably 
ever  travel  through  the  contents  of  a  whole  paper. 

Newspapers  always  excite  curiosity.  No  one  ever  lays  one 
down  without  a  feeling  of  disappointment. 

What  an  eternal  time  that  gentleman  in  black,  at  Nando's, 
keeps  the  paper !  I  am  sick  of  hearing  the  waiter  bawling  out 
incessantly,  "the  Chronicle  is  in  hand.  Sir," 

Coming  in  to  an  inn  at  night  —  having  ordered  your  sup- 
per—  what  can  be  more  delightful  than  to  find  lying  in  the 
window-seat,  left  there  time  out  of  mind  by  the  carelessness 
of  some  former  guest  —  two  or  three  numbers  of  the  old  Tozvti 
and  Cotintry  Magazine,  v/ith  its  amusing  tcte-a-tcte  pictures  — 

"'  The    Royal    Lover   and    Lady   G ;  "    "  The    Melting 

Platonic  and  the  Old  Beau," — and  such  like  antiquated 
scandal  t  Would  you  exchange  it  —  at  that  time,  and  in  that 
place  —  for  a  better  book  t 

Poor  Tobin,  who  latterly  fell  blind,  did  not  regret  it  so  much 
for  the  weightier  kinds  of  reading  —  the  Paradise  Lost,  or 
Comus,  he  could  have  read  to  him  —  but  he  missed  the 
pleasure  of  skimming  over  with  his  own  eye  a  magazine,  or 
a  light  pamphlet, 

I  should  not  care  to  be  caught  in  the  serious  avenues  of 
some  cathedral  alone  and  reading  Candide. 

I  do  not  remember  a  more  whimsical  surprise  than  having 
been  once  detected  —  by  a  familiar  damsel  —  reclined  at  my 
ease  upon  the  grass,  on  Primrose  Hill  (her  Cythera),  reading  — 


252  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Pavula.  There  was  nothing  in  the  book  to  make  a  man  seri- 
ously ashamed  at  the  exposure  ;  but  as  she  seated  herself 
down  by  me,  and  seemed  determined  to  read  in  company,  I 
could  have  wished  it  had  been  —  any  other  book.  We  read  on 
very  sociably  for  a  few  pages ;  and,  not  finding  the  author 
much  to  her  taste,  she  got  up,  and  —  went  away.  Gentle 
casuist,  I  leave  it  to  thee  to  conjecture,  whether  the  blush 
(for  there  was  one  between  us)  was  the  property  of  the  nymph 
or  the  swain  in  this  dilemma.  P>om  me  you  shall  never  get 
the  secret. 

I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out-of-doors  reading.  I  cannot 
settle  my  spirits  to  it.  I  knew  a  Unitarian  minister,  who  was 
generally  to  be  seen  upon  Snow  Hill  (as  yet  Skinner's  Street 
was  not),  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  eleven  in  the  morning, 
studying  a  volume  of  Lardner.  I  own  this  to  have  been  a 
strain  of  abstraction  beyond  my  reach.  I  used  to  admire  how 
he  sidled  along,  keeping  clear  of  secular  contacts.  An  illiterate 
encounter  with  a  porter's  knot,  or  a  bread  basket,  would  have 
quickly  put  to  flight  all  the  theology  I  am  master  of,  and  have 
left  me  worse  than  indifferent  to  the  five  points. 

There  is  a  class  of  street-readers  whom  I  can  never  con- 
template without  affection  —  the  poor  gentry,  who,  not  having 
wherewithal  to  buy  or  hire  a  book,  filch  a  little  learning  at  the 
open  stalls  —  the  owner,  with  his  hard  eye,  casting  envious 
looks  at  them  all  the  while,  and  thinking  when  they  will  have 
done.  Venturing  tenderly,  page  after  page,  expecting  every 
moment  when  he  shall  interpose  his  interdict,  and  yet  unable 
to  deny  themselves  the   gratification,  they   "  snatch  a  fearful 

joy."     Martin    B ,    in   this   way,   by  daily   fragments,    got 

through  two  volumes  of  Clarissa,  when  the  stall-keeper  damped 
his  laudable  ambition,  by  asking  him  (it  was  in  his  younger 
days)  whether  he  meant  to  purchase  the  work.  M.  declares 
that  under  no  circumstance  in  his  life  did  he  ever  peruse  a 
book  with  half  the  satisfaction  which  he  took  in  those  uneasy 
snatches.  A  quaint  poetess  of  our  day  has  moralised  upon  this 
subject  in  two  very  touching  but  homely  stanzas. 


CHARLES   LAMB  253 

I  saw  a  boy  with  eager  eye 

Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 

And  read,  as  he  'd  devour  it  all ; 

Which  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 

Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 

"  You,  Sir,  you  never  buy  a  book. 

Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look." 

The  boy  pass'd  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh 

He  wish'd  he  never  had  been  taught  to  read. 

Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have  had  no  need. 

Of  sufferings  the  poor  have  many. 

Which  never  can  the  rich  annoy  : 

I  soon  perceiv'd  another  boy. 

Who  look'd  as  if  he  'd  not  had  any 

Food,  for  that  day  at  least —  enjoy 

The  sight  of  cold  meat  in  a  tavern  larder. 

This  boy's  case,  then  thought  I,  is  surely  harder. 

Thus  hungry,  longing,  thus  without  a  penny. 

Beholding  choice  of  dainty-dressed  meat : 

No  wonder  if  he  wish  he  ne'er  had  learn'd  to  eat. 


MODERN  GALLANTRY 

London  Magazine,  November,  1822 

In  comparing  modern  with  ancient  manners,  we  are  pleased 
to  compliment  ourselves  upon  the  point  of  gallantry  ;  a  certain 
obsequiousness,  or  deferential  respect,  which  we  are  supposed 
to  pay  to  females,  as  females. 

I  shall  believe  that  this  principle  actuates  our  conduct, 
when  I  can  forget  that  in  the  nineteenth  century  of  the  era 
from  which  we  date  our  civility,  we  are  but  just  beginning 
to  leave  off  the  very  frequent  practice  of  whipping  females  in 
public,  in  common  with  the  coarsest  male  offenders. 

I  shall  believe  it  to  be  influential,  when  I  can  shut  my 
eyes  to  the  fact  that  in  England  women  are  still  occasionally 
—  hanged. 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  actresses  are  no  longer  subject 
to  be  hissed  off  a  stage  by  gentlemen. 


254  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  Dorimant  hands  a  fish-wife 
across  the  kennel ;  or  assists  the  apple- woman  to  pick  up  her 
wandering  fruit,  which  some  unlucky  dray  has  just  dissipated. 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  the  Dorimants  in  humbler  life, 
who  would  be  thought  in  their  way  notable  adepts  in  this 
refinement,  shall  act  upon  it  in  places  where  they  are  not 
known,  or  think  themselves  not  observed  —  when  I  shall  see 
the  traveller  for  some  rich  tradesman  part  with  his  admired 
box-coat,  to  spread  it  over  the  defenceless  shoulders  of  the 
poor  woman  who  is  passing  to  her  parish  on  the  roof  of 
the  same  stage-coach  with  him,  drenched  in  the  rain  —  when 
I  shall  no  longer  sec  a  woman  standing  up  in  the  pit  of  a 
London  theatre,  till  she  is  sick  and  faint  with  the  exertion, 
with  men  about  her,  seated  at  their  ease,  and  jeering  at  her 
distress  ;  till  one,  that  seems  to  have  more  manners  or  con- 
science than  the  rest,  significantly  declares  "  she  should  be 
welcome  to  his  seat,  if  she  were  a  little  younger  and  hand- 
somer." Place  this  dapper  warehouseman,  or  that  rider,  in  a 
circle  of  their  own  female  acquaintance,  and  you  shall  confess 
you  have  not  seen  a  politer-bred  man  in  Lothbury. 

Lastly,  I  shall  begin  to  believe  that  there  is  some  such 
principle  influencing  our  conduct,  when  more  than  one-half 
of  the  drudgery  and  coarse  servitude  of  the  world  shall  cease 
to  be  performed  by  women. 

Until  that  day  comes,  I  shall  never  believe  this  boasted 
point  to  be  anything  more  than  a  conventional  fiction ;  a 
pageant  got  up  between  the  sexes,  in  a  certain  rank,  and  at 
a  certain  time  of  life,  in  which  both  find  their  account  equally. 

I  shall  be  even  disposed  to  rank  it  among  the  salutary 
fictions  of  life,  when  in  polite  circles  I  shall  see  the  same 
attentions  paid  to  age  as  to  youth,  to  homely  features  as  to 
handsome,  to  coarse  complexions  as  to  clear  —  to  the  woman, 
as  she  is  a  woman,  not  as  she  is  a  beauty,  a  fortune,  or  a  title. 

I  shall  believe  it  to  be  something  more  than  a  name,  when 
a  well-dressed  gentleman  in  a  well-dressed  company  can  advert 
to  the  topic  of  female  old  age  without  exciting,  and  intending 


CHARLES   LAMB  255 

to  excite,  a  sneer:  —  when  the  phrases  "antiquated  virginity," 
and  such  a  one  has  "  overstood  her  market,"  pronounced  in 
good  company,  shall  raise  immediate  offence  in  man,  or 
woman,   that   shall   hear  them   spoken. 

Joseph  Paice,  of  Bread  Street  Hill,  merchant,  and  one  of 
the  Directors  of  the  South-Sea  Company — the  same  to  whom 
Edwards,  the  Shakspeare  commentator,  has  addressed  a  fine 
sonnet  —  was  the  only  pattern  of  consistent  gallantry  I  have 
met  with.  He  took  me  under  his  shelter  at  an  early  age,  and 
bestowed  some  pains  upon  me.  I  owe  to  his  precepts  and 
example  whatever  there  is  of  the  man  of  business  (and  that  is 
not  much)  in  my  composition.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  I  did 
not  profit  more.  Though  bred  a  Presbyterian,  and  brought  up 
a  merchant,  he  was  the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time.  He  had 
not  one  system  of  attention  to  females  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  another  in  the  shop,  or  at  the  stall.  I  do  not  mean  that 
he  made  no  distinction.  But  he  never  lost  sight  of  sex,  or 
overlooked  it  in  the  casualties  of  a  disadvantageous  situation. 
I  have  seen  him  stand  bare-headed  —  smile  if  you  please  — 
to  a  poor  servant  girl,  while  she  has  been  inquiring  of  him  the 
way  to  some  street  —  in  such  a  posture  of  unforced  civility,  as 
neither  to  embarrass  her  in  the  acceptance,  nor  himself  in  the 
offer,  of  it.  He  was  no  dangler,  in  the  common  acceptation 
of  the  word,  after  women  :  but  he  reverenced  and  upheld,  in 
every  form  in  which  it  came  before  him,  ivovianhood.  I  have 
seen  him  —  nay,  smile  not  —  tenderly  escorting  a  market- 
woman,  whom  he  had  encountered  in  a  shower,  exalting  his 
umbrella  over  her  poor  basket  of  fruit,  that  it  might  receive  no 
damage,  with  as  much  carefulness  as  if  she  had  been  a  Count- 
ess. To  the  reverend  form  of  Female  Eld  he  would  yield  the 
wall  (though  it  were  to  an  ancient  beggar-woman)  with  more 
ceremony  than  we  can  afford  to  show  our  grandams.  He  was 
the  Preux  Chevalier  of  Age  ;  the  Sir  Calidore,  or  Sir  Tristan, 
to  those  who  have  no  Calidores  or  Tristans  to  defend  them. 
The  roses,  that  had  long  faded  thence,  still  bloomed  for  him 
in  those  withered  and  yellow  cheeks. 


256  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

He  was  never  married,  but  in  his  youth  he  paid  his  ad- 
dresses to  the  beautiful  Susan  Winstanley  —  old  Winstanley's 
daughter  of  Clapton  —  who  dying  in  the  early  days  of  their 
courtship,  confirmed  in  him  the  resolution  of  perpetual  bache- 
lorship. It  was  during  their  short  courtship,  he  told  me,  that 
he  had  been  one  day  treating  his  mistress  with  a  profusion 
of  civil  speeches  —  the  common  gallantries  —  to  which  kind 
of  thing  she  had  hitherto  manifested  no  repugnance  —  but 
in  this  instance  with  no  effect.  He  could  not  obtain  from  her 
a  decent  acknowledgment  in  return.  She  rather  seemed  to 
resent  his  compliments.  He  could  not  set  it  down  to  caprice, 
for  the  lady  had  always  shown  herself  above  that  littleness. 
When  he  ventured  on  the  following  day,  finding  her  a  little 
better  humoured,  to  expostulate  with  her  on  her  coldness  of 
yesterday,  she  confessed,  with  her  usual  frankness,  that  she 
had  no  sort  of  dislike  to  his  attentions  ;  that  she  could  even 
endure  some  high-flown  compliments  ;  that  a  young  woman 
placed  in  her  situation  had  a  right  to  expect  all  sort  of  civil 
things  said  to  her ;  that  she  hoped  she  could  digest  a  dose 
of  adulation,  short  of  insincerity,  with  as  little  injury  to  her 
humility  as  most  young  women  :  but  that  ■ — ■  a  little  before  he 
had  commenced  his  compliments  —  she  had  overheard  him  by 
accident,  in  rather  rough  language,  rating  a  young  woman,  who 
had  not  brought  home  his  cravats  quite  to  the  appointed  time, 
and  she  thought  to  herself,  "  As  I  am  Miss  Susan  Winstanley, 
and  a  young  lady  —  a  reputed  beauty,  and  known  to  be  a  for- 
tune, — ■  I  can  have  my  choice  of  the  finest  speeches  from  the 
mouth  of  this  very  fine  gentleman  who  is  courting  me  —  but 
if  I  had  been  poor  Mary  Such-a-one  {inwiing  the  viillincj),  — • 
and  had  failed  of  bringing  home  the  cravats  to  the  appointed 
hour  —  though  perhaps  I  had  sat  up  half  the  night  to  forward 
them — what  sort  of  compliments  should  I  have  received  then  } 
And  my  woman's  pride  came  to  my  assistance  ;  and  I  thought 
that  if  it  were  only  to  do  mc  honour,  a  female,  like  myself, 
might  have  received  handsomer  usage  :  and  I  was  determined 
not  to  accept  any  fine  speeches,  to  the  compromise  of  that  sex, 


CHARLES   LAMP.  257 

the  belonging  to  which  was  after  all  my  strongest  claim  and 
title  to  them." 

I  think  the  lady  discovered  both  generosity,  and  a  just  way 
of  thinking,  in  this  rebuke  which  she  gave  her  lover ;  and  I 
have  sometimes  imagined  that  the  uncommon  strain  of  cour- 
tesy, which  through  life  regulated  the  actions  and  behaviour 
of  my  friend  towards  all  of  womankind  indiscriminately,  owed 
its  happy  origin  to  this-  seasonable  lesson  from  the  lips  of  his 
lamented  mistress. 

I  wish  the  whole  female  world  would  entertain  the  same 
notion  of  these  things  that  Miss  Winstanley  showed.  Then 
we  should  see  something  of  the  spirit  of  consistent  gallantry ; 
and  no  longer  witness  the  anomaly  of  the  same  man  —  a  p'at- 
tern  of  true  politeness  to  a  wife  —  of  cold  contempt,  or  rude- 
ness, to  a  sister  —  the  idolater  of  his  female  mistress  —  the 
disparager  and  despiser  of  his  no  less  female  aunt,  or  unfortu- 
nate —  still  female  —  maiden  cousin.  Just  so  much  respect  as 
a  woman  derogates  from  her  own  sex,  in  whatever  condition 
placed  —  her  handmaid,  or  dependent  —  she  deserves  to  have 
diminished  from  herself  on  that  score  ;  and  probably  will  feel 
the  diminution,  when  youth,  and  beauty,  and  advantages,  not 
inseparable  from  sex,  shall  lose  of  their  attraction.  What  a 
woman  should  demand  of  a  man  in  courtship,  or  after  it,  is 
first  —  respect  for  her  as  she  is  a  woman  ;  —  and  next  to  that 
—  to  be  respected  by  him  above  all  other  women.  But  let 
her  stand  upon  her  female  character  as  upon  a  foundation  ; 
and  let  the  attentions,  incident  to  individual  preference,  be 
so  many  pretty  additaments  and  ornaments  —  as  many,  and  as 
fanciful,  as  you  please  —  to  that  main  structure.  Let  her 
first  lesson  be  —  with  sweet  Susan  Winstanley  —  to  reverence 
her  sex. 


258  THE  ENGLISH    FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

OLD  CHINA 

London  Afcii^dc/jte,  March,  i  S23 

I  have  an  almost  feminine  partiality  for  old  china.  When 
I  go  to  see  any  great  house,  I  inquire  for  the  china-closet, 
and  next  for  the  picture-gallery.  I  cannot  .defend  the  order  of 
preference,  but  by  saying  that  we  have  all  some  taste  or  other, 
of  too  ancient  a  date  to  admit  of  our  remembering  distinctly 
that  it  was  an  acquired  one.  I  can  call  to  mind  the  first  play, 
and  the  first  exhibition,  that  I  was  taken  to  ;  but  I  am  not 
conscious  of  a  time  when  china  jars  and  saucers  were  intro- 
duced into  my  imagination. 

I  had  no  repugnance  then  —  why  should  I  now  have  .'*  —  to 
those  little,  lawless,  azure-tinctured  grotesques,  that  under  the 
notion  of  men  and  women,  float  about,  uncircumscribed  by  any 
element,  in  that  world  before  perspective  —  a  china  tea-cup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends  —  whom  distance  cannot  dimin- 
ish —  figuring  up  in  the  air  (so  they  appear  to  our  optics),  yet 
on  terra  Jinn  a  still  —  for  so  we  must  in  courtesy  interpret  that 
speck  of  deeper  blue,  which  the  decorous  artist,  to  prevent 
absurdity,   had  made  to  spring  up  beneath  their  sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,  and  the  women,  if 
possible,  with  still  more  womanish  expressions. 

Here  is  a  young  and  courtly  Mandarin,  handing  tea  to  a  lady 
from  a  salver  —  two  miles  off.  See  how  distance  seems  to  set 
off  respect !  And  here  the  same  lady,  or  another — for  likeness 
is  identity  on  tea-cups — -is  stepping  into  a  little  fairy  boat, 
moored  on  the  hither  side  of  this  calm  garden  river,  with 
a  dainty  mincing  foot,  which  in  a  right  angle  of  incidence 
(as  angles  go  in  our  world)  must  infallibly  land  her  in  the 
midst  of  a  flowery  mead  —  a  furlong  off  on  the  other  side  of 
the  same  strange  stream  ! 

Farther  on  —  if  far  or  near  can  be  predicated  of  their  world 
■ —  see  horses,  trees,  pagodas,  dancing  the  hays. 

Here  —  a  cow  and  rabbit  couchant,  and  co-extensive  —  so 
objects  show,  seen  through  the  lucid  atmosphere  of  fine  Cathay. 


CHARLES  LAMB  259 

I  was  pointing  out  to  my  cousin  last  evening,  over  our 
Hyson,  (which  we  are  old  fashioned  enough  to  drink  unmixed 
still  of  an  afternoon)  some  of  these  spcciosa  miracula  upon  a 
set  of  extraordinary  old  blue  china  (a  recent  purchase)  which 
we  were  now  for  the  first  time  using ;  and  could  not  help 
remarking  how  favourable  circumstances  had  been  to  us  of  late 
years,  that  we  could  afford  to  please  the  eye  sometimes  with 
trifles  of  this  sort  —  when  a  passing  sentiment  seemed  to  over- 
shade  the  brows  of  my  companion.  I  am  quick  at  detecting 
these  summer  clouds  in  Bridget. 

"  I  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come  again,"  she  said, 
"  when  we  were  not  quite  so  rich.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  want 
to  be  poor;  but  there  was  a  middle  state" — so  she  was  pleased 
to  ramble  on,  —  ""in  which  I  am  sure  we  were  a  great  deal 
happier.  A  purchase  is  but  a  purchase,  now  that  you  have 
money  enough  and  to  spare.  Formerly  it  used  to  be  a  triumph. 
When  we  coveted  a  cheap  luxury  (and,  *0  !  how  much  ado  I 
had  to  get  you  to  consent  in  those  times  !)  —  we  were  used  to 
have  a  debate  two  or  three  days  before,  and  to  weigh  the  for 
and  against,  and  think  what  we  might  spare  it  out  of,  and 
what  saving  we  could  hit  upon,  tbat  should  be  an  equivalent. 
A  thing  was  worth  buying  then,  when  we  felt  the  money  that 
we  paid  for  it. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you  made  to  hang 
upon  you,  till  all  your  friends  cried  shame  upon  you,  it  grew 
so  thread-bare  —  and  all  because  of  that  folio  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  which  you  dragged  home  late  at  night  from  Barker's 
in  Covent  Garden  }  Do  you  remember  how  we  eyed  it  for 
weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our  minds  to  the  purchase,  and 
had  not  come  to  a  determination  till  it  was  near  ten  o'clock  of 
the  Saturday  night,  when  you  set  off  from  Islington,  fearing 
you  should  be  too  late — and  when  the  old  bookseller  with  some 
grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twinkling  taper  (for  he 
was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out  the  relic  from  his  dusty  treas- 
ures —  and  when  you  lugged  it  home,  wishing  it  were  twice  as 
cumbersome  —  and  when  you  presented  it  to  me  —  and  when 


26o  THE  ENGLISH   J-AMHJAR  ESSAY 

we  were  exploring  the  pcrfcctness  of  it  {collafing  you  called  it) 
—  and  while  I  was  repairing  some  of  the  loose  leaves  with 
paste,  which  your  impatience  would  not  suffer  to  be  left  till 
daybreak  —  was  there  no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man  ?  or  can 
those  neat  black  clothes  which  you  wear  now,  and  are  so  care- 
ful to  keep  brushed,  since  we  have  become  rich  and  finical, 
give  you  half  the  honest  vanity,  with  which  you  flaunted  it  about 
in  that  overworn  suit  —  your  old  corbeau  —  for  four  or  five 
weeks  longer  than  you  should  have  done,  to  pacify  your  con- 
science for  the  mighty  sum  of  fifteen  — or  sixteen  shillings  was 
it? — a  great  affair  we  thought  it  then  —  which  you  had  lavished 
on  the  old  folio.  Now  you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book  that 
pleases  you,  but  I  do  not  see  that  you  ever  bring  me  home  any 
nice  old  purchases  now. 

"  When  you  came  home  with  twenty  apologies  for  laying  out 
a  less  number  of  shillings  upon  that  print  after  Lionardo,  which 
we  christened  the  Lndv  Blanch  ;  when  you  looked  at  the  pur- 
chase, and  thought  of  the  money — and  thought  of  the  money, 
and  looked  again  at  the  picture  —  was  there  no  pleasure  in  being 
a  poor  man  .''  Now,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  into 
Colnaghi's,  and  buy  a  wilderness  of  Lionardos.    Yet  do  you  .? 

"  Then,  do  you  remember  our  pleasant  walks  to  Enfield,  and 
Potter's  Bar,  and  Waltham,  when  we  had  a  holyday  — -  holy- 
days,  and  all  other  fun,  are  gone,  now  we  are  rich  —  and  the 
little  hand-basket  in  which  I  used  to  deposit  our  day's  fare  of 
savoury  cold  lamb  and  salad  —  and  how  you  would  pry  about 
at  noon-tide  for  some  decent  house,  where  we  might  go  in,  and 
produce  our  store  —  only  paying  for  the  ale  that  you  must  call 
for — and  speculate  upon  the  looks  of  the  landlady,  and  whether 
she  was  likely  to  allow  us  a  table-cloth  —  and  wish  for  such 
another  honest  hostess,  as  Izaak  Walton  has  described  many  a 
one  on  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Lea,  when  he  went  a  fishing 
— and  sometimes  they  would  prove  obliging  enough,  and  some- 
times they  would  look  grudgingly  upon  us  —  but  we  had  cheer- 
ful looks  still  for  one  another,  and  would  eat  our  plain  food 
savouril)',  scarcely  grudging  Piscator  his  Trout  Hall .?    Now,  when 


CHARLES   LAMB  26 1 

we  go  out  a  day's  pleasuring,  which  is  seldom  moreover,  we  ride 
part  of  the  way  —  and  go  into  a  fine  inn,  and  order  the  best  of 
dinners,  never  debating  the  expense  —  which,  after  all,  never 
has  half  the  relish  of  those  chance  country  snaps,  when  we  were 
at  the  mercy  of  uncertain  usage,  and  a  precarious  welcome. 

"  You  are  too  proud  to  see  a  play  anywhere  now  but  in  the 
pit.  Do  you  remember  where  it  was  we  used  to  sit,  when  we 
saw  the  Battle  of  Hexham,  and  the  Sun-ender  of  Calais,  and 
Bannister  and  Mrs.  Bland  in  the  CJiildren  in  the  Wood — 
when  we  squeezed  out  our  shillings  a-piece  to  sit  three  or  four 
times  in  a  season  in  the  one-shilling  gallery  —  where  you  felt 
all  the  time  that  you  ought  not  to  have  brought  me  —  and  more 
strongly  I  felt  obligation  to  you  for  having  brought  me  —  and 
the  pleasure  was  the  better  for  a  little  shame  —  and  when  the 
curtain  drew  up,  what  cared  we  for  our  place  in  the  house, 
or  what  mattered  it  where  we  were  sitting,  when  our  thoughts 
were  with  Rosalind  in  Arden,  or  with  Viola  at  the  Court  of 
Illyria }  You  used  to  say  that  the  Gallery  was  the  best  place 
of  all  for  enjoying  a  play  socially  —  that  the  relish  of  such  ex- 
hibitions must  be  in  proportion  to  the  infrequency  of  going  — 
that  the  company  we  met  there,  not  being  in  general  readers 
of  plays,  were  obliged  to  attend  the  more,  and  did  attend,  to 
what  was  going  on  on  the  stage  —  because  a  word  lost  would 
have  been  a  chasm,  which  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  fill  up. 
With  such  reflections  we  consoled  our  pride  then  —  and  I 
appeal  to  you,  whether,  as  a  woman,  I  met  generally  with  less 
attention  and  accommodation  than  I  have  done  since  in  more 
expensive  situations  in  the  house  }  The  getting  in,  indeed,  and 
the  crowding  up  those  inconvenient  staircases  was  bad  enough, 
—  but  there  was  still  a  law  of  civility  to  women  recognised  to 
quite  as  great  an  extent  as  we  ever  found  in  the  other  passages 
— and  how  a  little  difficulty  overcome  heightened  the  snug  seat, 
and  the  play,  afterwards  !  Now  we  can  only  pay  our  money  and 
walk  in.  You  cannot  see,  you  say,  in  the  galleries  now,  I  am 
sure  we  saw,  and  heard  too,  well  enough  then  —  but  sight,  and 
all,  I  think,  is  gone  with  our  poverty. 


262  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

"There  was  pleasure  in  eating  strawberries,  before  they  be- 
came quite  common  —  in  the  first  dish  of  peas,  while  they  were 
yet  dear  —  to  have  them  for  a  nice  supper,  a  treat.  What  treat 
can  we  have  now?  If  we  were  to  treat  ourselves  now  —  that 
is,  to  have  dainties  a  little  above  our  means,  it  would  be  selfish 
and  wicked.  It  is  the  very  little  more  that  we  allow  ourselves 
beyond  what  the  actual  poor  can  get  at,  that  makes  what  I  call 
a  treat  —  when  two  people  living  together,  as  we  have  done, 
now  and  then  indulge  themselves  in  a  cheap  luxury,  which  both 
like  ;  while  each  apologises,  and  is  willing  to  take  both  halves 
of  the  blame  to  his  single  share.  I  see  no  harm  in  j^eople  mak- 
ing much  of  themselves  in  that  sense  of  the  word.  It  may  give 
them  a  hint  how  to  make  much  of  others.  But  now  —  what 
I  mean  by  the  word  —  we  never  do  make  much  of  ourselves. 
None  but  the  poor  can  do  it.  I  do  not  mean  the  veriest  poor 
of  all,  but  persons  as  we  were,  just  above  poverty. 

"  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,  that  it  is  mighty 
pleasant  at  the  end  of  the  year  to  make  all  meet,  —  and  much 
ado  we  used  to  have  every  Thirty-first  Night  of  December  to 
account  for  our  exceedings  —  many  a  long  face  did  you  make 
over  your  puzzled  accounts,  and  in  contriving  to  make  it  out 
how  we  had  spent  so  much  —  or  that  we  had  not  spent  so 
much  —  or  that  it  was  impossible  we  should  spend  so  much 
next  year  —  and  still  we  found  our  slender  capital  decreasing 
—  but  then,  betwixt  ways,  and  projects,  and  compromises  of  one 
sort  or  another,  and  talk  of  curtailing  this  charge,  and  doing 
without  that  for  the  future  —  and  the  hope  that  youth  brings, 
and  laughing  spirits  (in  which  you  were  never  poor  till  now)  we 
pocketed  up  our  loss,  and  in  conclusion,  with  '  lusty  brimmers ' 
(as  you  used  to  quote  it  out  of  hearty  cheerful  Mr.  Cotton,  as 
you  called  him),  we  used  to  welcome  in  the  '  coming  guest.' 
Now  we  have  no  reckoning  at  all  at  the  end  of  the  old  year  — 
no  flattering  promises  about  the  new  year  doing  better  for  us." 

Bridget  is  so  sparing  of  her  speech  on  most  occasions  that 
when  she  gets  into  a  rhetorical  vein,  I  am  careful  how  I  in- 
terrupt it.     I  could  not  help,  however,  smiling  at  the  phantom 


CHARLES   LAMB  263 

of  wealth  which  her  dear  imagination  had  conjured  up  out  of 
a  clear  income  of  a  poor — hundred  pounds  a  year.  "It  is 
true  we  were  happier  when  we  were  poorer,  but  we  were  also 
younger,  my  cousin.  I  am  afraid  we  must  put  up  with  the 
excess,  for  if  we  were  to  shake  the  superflux  into  the  sea, 
we  should  not  much  mend  ourselves.  That  we  had  much  to 
struggle  with,  as  we  grew  up  together,  we  have  reason  to  be 
most  thankful.  It  strengthened,  and  knit  our  compact  closer. 
We  could  never  ha\'e  been  what  we  have  been  to  each  other, 
if  we  had  always  had  the  sufficiency  which  you  now  complain 
of.  VThe  resisting  power  —  those  natural  dilations  of  the  youth- 
ful spirit,  which  circumstances  cannot  straiten  —  with  us  are 
long  since  passed  away.  Competence  to  age  is  supplementary 
youth  ;  a  sorr}'  supplement,  indeed,  but  I  fear  the  best  that  is 
to  be  had.  We  must  ride  where  we  formerly  walked  :  live 
better,  and  lie  softer  —  and  shall  be  wise  to  do  so  —  than  we 
had  means  to  do  in  those  good  old  days  you  speak  of.  Yet 
could  those  days  return  —  could  you  and  I  once  more  walk 
our  thirty  miles  a-day  —  could  Bannister  and  Mrs.  Bland  again 
be  young,  and  you  and  I  be  young  to  see  them  ■ —  could  the 
good  old  one-shilling  gallery  days  return  -v-  they  are  dreams, 
my  cousin,  now  —  but  could  you  and  I  at  this  moment,  instead 
of  this  quiet  argument,  by  our  well-carpeted  fire-side,  sitting  on 
this  luxurious  sofa  —  be  once  more  struggling  up  those  incon- 
venient staircases,  pushed  about,  and  squeezed,  and  elbowed 
by  the  poorest  rabble  of  poor  gallery  scramblers  —  could  I 
once  more  hear  those  anxious  shrieks  of  yours  —  and  the  de- 
licious TJiank  God,  zue  arc  safe,  which  always  followed  when 
the  topmost  stair,  conquered,  let  in  the  first  light  of  the  whole 
cheerful  theatre  down  beneath  us  —  I  know  not  the  fathom 
line  that  ever  touched  a  descent  so  deep  as  I  would  be  willing 
to  bury  more  wealth   in  than   Cuesus  had,  or  the  great  Jew 

R is  supposed  to  have,  to  purchase  it.    And  now  do  just 

look  at  that  merry  little  Chinese  waiter  holding  an  umbrella, 
big  enough  for  a  bed-tester,  over  the  head  of  that  pretty  insipid 
half-Madonaish  chit  of  a  lady  in  that  very  blue  summer  house." 


264  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

POOR  RELATIONS 

Loiidcvi  Mao^aziiie,  May,  1S23 

A  Poor  Relation  —  is  the  most  irrelevant  thing  in  nature,  — • 
a  piece  of  impertinent  correspondency,  —  an  odious  approx- 
imation, —  a  haunting  conscience,  —  a  preposterous  shadow, 
lengthening  in  the  noontide  of  our  prosperity,  —  an  unwel- 
come remembrancer,  —  a  perpetually  recurring  mortification,  — 
a  drain  on  your  purse,  —  a  more  intolerable  dun  upon  your 
pride,  —  a  drawback  upon  success,  —  a  rebuke  to  your  rising, 

—  a  stain  in  your  blood,  —  a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon,  — 
a  rent  in  your  garment,  —  a  death's  head  at  your  banquet,  — 
Agathocles'  pot, — a  Mordecai  in  your  gate, — a  Lazarus  at 
your  door,  —  a  lion  in  your  path,  —  a  frog  in  your  chamber, 

—  a  fly  in  your  ointment,  —  a  mote  in  your  eye, — a  triumph 
to  your  enemy,  an  apology  to  your  friends,  —  the  one  thing 
not  needful, — the  hail  in  harvest,  —  the  ounce  of  sour  in  a 
pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.     Your  heart  telleth  you  "  That 

is  Mr. y    A  rap,  between  familiarity  and  respect;   that 

demands,  and,  at  the  same  time,  seems  to  despair  of,  enter- 
tainment. He  entereth  smiling  and  —  embarrassed.  He  hold- 
eth  out  his  hand  to  you  to  shake,  and  —  draweth  it  back  again. 
He  casually  looketh  in  about  dinner-time  —  when  the  table  is 
full.  He  offereth  to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company  — 
but  is  induced  to  stay.  He  filleth  a  chair,  and  your  visitor's 
two  children  are  accommodated  at  a  side  table.  He  never 
cometh  upon  open  days,  when  your  wife  says  with  some  com- 
placency,  "My  dear,  perhaps  Mr. will  drop  in  to-day." 

He  remembereth  birthdays  ■ —  and  professeth  he  is  fortunate 
to  have  stumbled  upon  one.  He  declareth  against  fish,  the 
turbot  being  small — yet  suffereth  himself  to  be  importuned 
into  a  slice  against  his  first  resolution.  He  sticketh  by  the 
port  —  yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to  empty  the  remainder 
glass  of  claret,  if  a  stranger  press  it  upon  him.  He  is  a  puzzle 
to  the  servants,  who  are  fearful  of  being  too   obsequious,  or 


CHARLES  LAMB  265 

not  civil  enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think  "they  have  seen 
him  before."  Everyone  speculateth  upon  his  condition  ;  and 
the  most  part  take  him  to  be  —  a  ticte  waiter.  He  caheth  you 
by  your  Christian  name,  to  imply  that  his  other  is  the  same 
with  your  own.  He  is  too  familiar  by  half,  yet  you  wish  he 
had  less  diffidence.  With  half  the  familiarity  he  might  pass 
for  a  casual  dependent ;  with  more  boldness  he  would  be  in 
no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what  he  is.  He  is  too  humble 
for  a  friend,  yet  taketh  on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client. 
He  is  a  worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inasmuch  as  he 
bringeth  up  no  rent  —  yet  'tis  odds,  from  his  garb  and  de- 
meanour, that  your  guests  take  him  for  one.  He  is  asked  to 
make  Ane  at  the  whist  table  ;  refuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty, 
and  —  resents  being  left  out.  When  the  company  break  up 
he  proffereth  to  go  for  a  coach  —  and  lets  the  servant  go. 
He  recollects  your  grandfather ;  and  will  thrust  in  some  mean 
and  cjuite  unimportant  anecdote  of  —  the  family.  He  knew  it 
when  it  was  not  quite  so  flourishing  as  "  he  is  blest  in  seeing 
it  now."  He  reviveth  past  situations  to  institute  what  he  call- 
eth  —  favourable  comparisons.  With  a  reflecting  sort  of  con- 
gratulation, he  will  inquire  the  price  of  your  furniture  ;  and 
insults  you  with  a  special  commendation  of  your  window- 
curtains.  He  is  of  opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more  elegant 
shape,  but,  after  all,  there  was  something  more  comfortable 
about  the  old  tea-kettle  —  which  you  must  remember.  He  dare 
say  you  must  find  a  great  convenience  in  having  a  carriage  of 
your  own,  and  appcaleth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth 
if  you  have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet ;  and  did  not 
know,  till  lately,  that  such-and-such  had  been  the  crest  of  the 
family.  His  memory  is  unseasonable  ;  his  compliments  per- 
verse ;  his  talk  a  trouble  ;  his  stay  pertinacious  ;  and  when  he 
goeth  away,  you  dismiss  his  chair  into  a  corner,  as  precipitately 
as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid  of  two  nuisances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that  is  —  a  female 
Poor  Relation.  You  may  do  something  with  the  other  ;  you 
may  pass  him  off  tolerably  well  ;  but  your  indigent  she-relative 


266  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

is  hopeless.  "He  is  an  old  humourist,"  you  may  say,  "and 
affects  to  go  threadbare.  His  circumstances  are  better  than 
folks  would  take  them  to  be.  You  are  fond  of  having  a  Char- 
acter at  your  table,  and  truly  he  is  one."  But  in  the  indica- 
tions of  female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.  No  woman 
dresses  below  herself  from  caprice.  The  truth  must  out  with- 
out shuffling.     "She   is   plainly   related   to  the   L s;    or 

what  docs  she  at  their  house  ?  "  She  is,  in  all  probability, 
your  wife's  cousin.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the 
case.  Her  garb  is  something  between  a  gentlewoman  and  a 
beggar,  yet  the  former  evidently  predominates.  She  is  most 
provokingly  humble,  and  ostentatiously,  sensible  to  her  inferi- 
ority. He  may  require  to  be  repressed  sometimes  —  aliquando 
siifflainiiiaudus  crat  —  but  there  is  no  raising  her.  You  send 
her  soup  at  dinner,  and  she   begs   to   be   helped  —  after  the 

gentlemen.    Mr. requests  the  honour  of  taking  wine  with 

her ;  she  hesitates  between  Port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses  the 
former  —  because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  Sir;  and 
insists  on  not  troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
keeper patronises  her.  The  children's  governess  takes  upon 
her  to  correct  her,  when  she  has  mistaken  the  piano  for 
a  harpsichord. 

Richard  Amlet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a  notable  instance  of 
the  disadvantages  to  which  this  chimerical  notion  of  affinity 
constitntiug  a  claim  to  acquaintance  may  subject  the  spirit 
of  a  gentleman.  A  little  foolish  blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt 
him  and  a  lady  of  great  estate.  His  stars  are  perpetually 
crossed  by  the  malignant  maternity  of  an  old  woman,  who 
persists  in  calling  him  "  her  son  Dick."  But  she  has  where- 
withal in  the  end  to  recompense  his  indignities,  and  float  him 
again  upon  the  brilliant  surface,  under  which  it  had  been  her 
seeming  business  and  pleasure  all  along  to  sink  him.  All 
men,  besides,  are  not  of  Dick's  temperament.  I  knew  an 
Amlet  in  real  life,  who,  wanting  Dick's  buoyancy,  sank  indeed. 

Poor  W was  of  my  own  standing  at  Christ's,  a  fine  classic, 

and  a  youth  of  promise.     If  he  had  a  blemish,  it  was  too  much 


CHARLES  LAMB  267 

pride  ;  but  its  quality  was  inoffensive  ;  it  was  not  of  that  sort 
which  hardens  the  heart,  and  serves  to  keep  inferiors  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  it  only  sought  to  ward  off  derogation  from  itself.  It 
was  the  principle  of  self-respect  carried  as  far  as  it  could  go, 
without  infringing  upon  that  respect  which  he  would  have 
every  one  else  equally  maintain  for  himself.  He  would  have 
you  to  think  alike  with  him  on  this  topic.  Many  a  quarrel 
have  I  had  with  him,  when  we  were  rather  older  boys,  and 
our  tallness  m.ade  us  more  obnoxious  to  observation  in  the 
blue  clothes,  because  I  would  not  thread  the  alleys  and  blind 
ways  of  the  town  with  him  to  elude  notice,  when  we  have 
been  out  together  on  a  holiday  in  the  streets  of  this  sneering 

and  pr\'ing  metropolis.    W went,  sore,  with  these  notions, 

to  Oxford,  where  the  dignity  and  sweetness  of  a  scholar's  life, 
meeting  with  the  alloy  of  a  humble  introduction,  wrought  in 
him  a  passionate  devotion  to  the  place,  with  a  profound  aver- 
sion from  the  society.  The  servitor's  gown  (worse  than  his 
school  array)  clung  to  him  with  Nessian  venom.  He  thought 
himself  ridiculous  in  a  garb  under  which  Latimer  must  have 
walked  erect ;  and  in  which  Hooker,  in  his  young  days,  possibly 
flaunted  in  a  vein  of  no  discommendable  vanity.  In  the  depths 
of  college  shades,  or  in  his  lonely  chamber,  the  poor  student 
shrunk  from  observation.  He  found  shelter  among  books, 
which  insult  not ;  and  studies,  that  ask  no  questions  of  a 
)outh"s  finances.  He  was  lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom 
cared  for  looking  out  beyond  his  domains.  The  healing  influ- 
ence of  studious  pursuits  was  upon  him,  to  soothe  and  to 
abstract.  He  was  almost  a  healthy  man  ;  when  the  wayward- 
ness of   his   fate   broke  out   against   him   with   a   second   and 

worse  niaHgiiity.    The  father  of  W had  hitherto  exercised 

the  humble  profession  of  house-painter  at  N ,  near  Ox- 
ford. A  supposed  interest  with  some  of  the  heads  of  colleges 
had  now  induced  him  to  take  up  his  abode  in  that  city,  with 
the  hope  of  being  emplo\^ed  upon  some  public  works  which 
were  talked  of.  From  that  moment,  I  read  in  the  countenance 
of  the  young  man  the  determination  which  at  length  tore  him 


268  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

from  academical  pursuits  for  ever.  To  a  person  unacquainted 
with  our  Universities,  the  distance  between  the  gownsmen  and 
the  townsmen,  as  they  are  called  —  the  trading  part  of  the 
latter  especially  —  is   carried  to  an  excess  that  would  appear 

harsh  and  incredible.    The  temperament  of   W 's  father 

was  diametrically  the  reverse  of  his  own.    Old  W was  a 

little,  busy,  cringing  tradesman,  who,  with  his  son  upon  his 
arm,  would  stand  bowing  and  scraping,  cap  in  hand,  to  any- 
thing that  wore  the  semblance  of  a  gown  —  insensible  to  the 
winks  and  opener  remonstrances  of  the  young  man,  to  whose 
chamber-fellow,  or  equal  in  standing,  perhaps,  he  was  thus 
obsequiously  and  gratuitously  ducking.    Such  a  state  of  things 

could  not  last.    W must  change  the  air  of  Oxford  or  be 

suffocated.  He  chose  the  former ;  and  let  the  sturdy  moralist, 
who  strains  the  point  of  the  filial  duties  as  high  as  they  can 
bear,  censure  the  dereliction  ;  he  cannot  estimate  the  struggle. 

I  stood  with  W ,  the  last  afternoon  I  ever  saw  him,  under 

the  eaves  of  his  paternal  dwelling.    It  was  in  the  fine  lane 

leading  from  the  High  Street  to  the  back  of college,  where 

W kept  his  rooms.  He  seemed  thoughtful,  and  more  rec- 
onciled. I  ventured  to  rally  him  —  finding  him  in  a  better 
mood  —  upon  a  representation  of  the  Artist  Evangelist,  which 
the  old  man,  whose  affairs  were  beginning  to  flourish,  had 
caused  to  be  set  up  in  a  splendid  sort  of  frame  over  his  really 
handsome  shop,  either  as  a  token  of  prosperity,  or  badge  of 

gratitude  to  his  saint.    W looked  up  at  the   Luke,  and, 

like  Satan,  "knew  his  mounted  sign  —  and  fled."  A  letter 
on  his  father's  table  the  next  morning  announced  that  he  had 
accepted  a  commission  in  a  regiment  about  to  embark  for 
Portugal.  He  was  among  the  first  who  perished  before  the 
walls  of  St.  Sebastian. 

I  do  not  know  how,  upon  a  subject  which  I  began  with 
treating  half  seriously,  I  should  have  fallen  upon  a  recital  so 
eminently  painful ;  but  this  theme  of  poor  relationship  is  re- 
plete with  so  much  matter  for  tragic  as  well  as  comic  associations, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  keep  the  account  distinct  without  blending. 


CHARLES  LAMB  269 

The  earliest  impressions  whieh  I  received  on  this  matter  are 
certainly  not  attended  with  anything  painful,  or  very  humiliating, 
in  the  recalling.  At  my  father's  table  (no  very  splendid  one) 
was  to  be  found,  every  Saturday,  the  mysterious  figure  of  an 
aged  gentleman,  clothed  in  neat  black,  of  a  sad  yet  comely 
appearance.  His  deportment  was  of  the  essence  of  gravity ; 
his  words  few  or  none  ;  and  I  was  not  to  make  a  noise  in  his 
presence.  I  had  little  inclination  to  have  done  so  —  for  my 
cue  was  to  admire  in  silence.  A  particular  elbow  chair  was 
appropriated  to  him,  which  was  in  no  case  to  be  violated.  A 
peculiar  sort  of  sweet  pudding,  which  appeared  on  no  other 
occasion,  distinguished  the  days  of  his  coming.  I  used  to 
think  him  a  prodigiously  rich  man.  All  I  could  make  out 
of  him  was  that  he  and  my  father  had  been  schoolfellows  a 
world  ago  at  Lincoln,  and  that  he  came  from  the  Mint.  The 
Mint  I  knew  to  be  a  place  where  all  the  money  was  coined 
—  and  I  thought  he  was  the  owner  of  all  that  money.  Awful 
ideas  of  the  Tower  twined  themselves  about  his  presence.  He 
seemed  above  human  infirmities  and  passions.  A  sort  of 
melancholy  grandeur  invested  him.  From  some  inexplicable 
doom  I  fancied  him  obliged  to  go  about  in  an  eternal  suit  of 
mourning ;  a  captive  —  a  stately  being,  let  out  of  the  Tower 
on  Saturdays.  Often  have  I  wondered  at  the  temerity  of  my 
father,  who,  in  spite  of  an  habitual  general  respect  which 
we  all  in  common  manifested  towards  him,  would  venture  now 
and  then  to  stand  up  against  him  in  some  argument,  touching 
their  youthful  days.  The  houses  of  the  ancient  city  of  Lincoln 
are  divided  (as  most  of  my  readers  know)  between  the  dwellers 
on  the  hill,  and  in  the  valley.  This  marked  distinction  formed 
an  obvious  division  between  the  boys  who  lived  above  (however 
brought  together  in  a  common  school)  and  the  boys  whose 
paternal  residence  was  on  the  plain  ;  a  sufficient  cause  of 
hostility  in  the  code  of  these  young  Grotiuses.  My  father  had 
been  a  leading  Mountaineer ;  and  would  still  maintain  the 
general  superiority,  in  skill  and  hardihood,  of  the  Above  Boys 
(his  own  faction)  over  the  Bclozv  Boys  (so  were  they  called), 


270  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  which  party  his  contemporary  had  been  a  chieftain.  Many 
and  hot  were  the  skirmishes  on  this  topic  —  the  only  one  upon 
which  the  old  gentleman  was  ever  brought  out  —  and  bad  blood 
bred  ;  even  sometimes  almost  to  the  recommencement  (so  I 
expected)  of  actual  hostilities.  But  my  father,  who  scorned  to 
insist  upon  advantages,  generally  contrived  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation upon  some  adroit  by-commendation  of  the  old  Minster ; 
in  the  general  preference  of  which,  before  all  other  cathedrals 
in  the  island,  the  dweller  on  the  hill,  and  the  plain-born,  could 
meet  on  a  conciliating  level,  and  lay  down  their  less  important 
differences.  Once  only  I  saw  the  old  gentleman  really  ruffled, 
and  I  remembered  with  anguish  the  thought  that  came  over 
me  :  "  Perhaps  he  will  never  come  here  again."  He  had  been 
pressed  to  take  another  plate  of  the  viand,  which  I  have  already 
mentioned  as  the  indispensable  concomitant  of  his  visits.  He 
had  refused  with  a  resistance  amounting  to  rigour  —  when 
my  aunt,  an  old  Lincolnian,  but  who  had  something  of  this  in 
common  with  my  cousin  Bridget,  that  she  would  sometimes 
press  civility  out  of  season  —  uttered  the  following  memorable 
application — "Do  take  another  slice,  Mr.  Billet,  for  you  do 
not  get  pudding  every  day."  The  old  gentleman  said  nothing 
at  the  time  —  but  he  took  occasion  in  the  course  of  the  eve- 
ning, when  some  argument  had  intervened  between  them,  to 
utter  with  an  emphasis  which  chilled  the  company,  and  which 
chills  me  now  as  I  write  it —  "  Woman,  you  are  superannuated." 
John  Billet  did  not  survive  long,  after  the  digesting  of  this 
affront ;  but  he  survived  long  enough  to  assure  me  that  peace 
was  actually  restored !  and,  if  I  remember  aright,  another 
pudding  was  discreetly  substituted  in  the  place  of  that  which 
had  occasioned  the  offence.  He  died  at  the  Mint  (anno  1781) 
where  he  had  long  held,  what  he  accounted,  a  comfortable 
independence  ;  and  with  five  pounds,  fourteen  shillings,  and 
a  penny,  which  were  found  in  his  escrutoire  after  his  decease, 
left  the  world,  blessing  God  that  he  had  enough  to  bury  him, 
and  that  he  had  never' been  obliged  to  any  man  for  a  sixpence. 
This  was  —  a  Poor  Relation. 


CHARLES   LAMB  27 1 

THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN 

London  Mitj^azinL%  May,  1S25 

Sera  tamen  respexit  libertas.  —  Virgil 
A  Clerk  I  was  in  London  gay.  —  O'Keefe 

If  peradventure,  Reader,  it  has  been  thy  lot  to  waste  the 
golden  years  of  thy  life  —  thy  shining  youth  —  in  the  irksome 
confinement  of  an  office  ;  to  have  thy  prison  days  prolonged 
through  middle  age  down  to  decrepitude  and-  silver  hairs, 
without  hope  of  release  or  respite  ;  to  have  lived  to  forget 
that  there  are  such  things  as  holidays,  or  to  remember  them 
but  as  the  prerogatives  of  childhood  ;  then,  and  then  only,  will 
you  be  able  to  appreciate  my  deliverance. 

It  is  now  six  and  thirty  years  since  I  took  my  seat  at  the 
desk  in  Mincing  Lane.  Melancholy  was  the  transition  at  four- 
teen from  the  abundant  playtime,  and  the  frequently  interven- 
ing vacations  of  school  days,  to  the  eight,  nine,  and  sometimes 
ten  hours'  a-day  attendance  at  a  counting-house.  But  time  par- 
tially reconciles  us  to  anything.  I  gradually  became  content  — 
doggedly  contented,  as  wild  animals  in  cages. 

It  is  true  I  had  my  Sundays  to  myself ;  but  Sundays,  ad- 
mirable as  the  institution  of  them  is  for  purposes  of  worship, 
are  for  that  very  reason  the  very  worst  adapted  for  days  of 
unbending  and  recreation.  In  particular,  there  is  a  gloom  for 
me  attendant  upon  a  city  Sunday,  a  weight  in  the  air.  I  miss 
the  cheerful  cries  of  London,  the  music,  and  the  ballad-singers 
—  the  buzz  and  stirring  murmur  of  the  streets.  Those  eternal 
bells  depress  me.  The  closed  shops  repel  me.  Prints,  pic- 
tures, all  the  glittering  and  endless  succession  of  knacks  and 
gewgaws,  and  ostentatiously  displayed  wares  of  tradesmen, 
which  make  a  week-day  saunter  through  the  less  busy  parts 
of  the  metropolis  so  delightful  —  are  shut  out.  No  book-stalls 
deliciously  to  idle  over  —  No  busy  faces  to  recreate  the  idle 
man  who  contemplates  them  ever  passing  by  —  the  very  face 
of  business  a  charm  by  contrast  to  his  temporary  relaxation 
from   it.     Nothing  to  be   seen  but  unhappy  countenances  — • 


272  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

or  half-happy  at  best  —  of  emancipated  'prentices  and  httle 
tradesfolks,  with  here  and  there  a  servant  maid  that  has  got 
leave  to  go  out,  who,  slaving  all  the  week,  with  the  habit  has 
lost  almost  the  capacity  of  enjoying  a  free  hour  ;  and  livelily  ex- 
pressing the  hollowness  of  a  day's  pleasuring.  The  very  strollers 
in  the  fields  on  that  day  look  anything  but  comfortable. 

But  besides  Sundays  I  had  a  day  at  Easter,  and  a  day  at 
Christmas,  with  a  full  week  in  the  summer  to  go  and  air  my- 
self in  my  native  fields  of  Hertfordshire.  This  last  was  a  great 
indulgence  ;  and  the  prospect  of  its  recurrence,  I  believe,  alone 
kept  me  up  through  the  year,  and  made  my  durance  tolerable. 
But  when  the  week  came  round,  did  the  glittering  phantom  of 
the  distance  keep  touch  with  me  .''  or  rather  was  it  not  a  series 
of  seven  uneasy  days,  spent  in  restless  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and 
a  wearisome  anxiety  to  find  out  how  to  make  the  most  of 
them  ?  Where  was  the  quiet,  where  the  promised  rest .''  Be- 
fore I  had  a  taste  of  it,  it  was  vanished.  I  was  at  the  desk 
again,  counting  upon  the  fifty-one  tedious  weeks  that  must 
intervene  before  such  another  snatch  would  come.  Still  the 
prospect  of  its  coming  threw  something  of  an  illumination 
upon  the  darker  side  of  my  captivity.  Without  it,  as  I  have 
said,  I  could  scarcely  have  sustained  my  thraldom. 

Independently  of  the  rigours  of  attendance,  I  have  ever 
been  haunted  with  a  sense  (perhaps  a  mere  caprice)  of  inca- 
pacity for  business.  This,  during  my  latter  years,  had  increased 
to  such  a  degree,  that  it  was  visible  in  all  the  lines  of  my 
countenance.  My  health  and  my  good  spirits  flagged.  I  had 
perpetually  a  dread  of  some  crisis,  to  which  I  should  be  found 
unequal.  Besides  my  daylight  servitude,  I  served  over  again 
all  night  in  my  sleep,  and  would  awake  with  terrors  of  imagi- 
nary false  entries,  errors  in  my  accounts,  and  the  like.  I  was 
fifty  years  of  age,  and  no  prospect  of  emancipation  presented 
itself.  I  had  grown  to  my  desk,  as  it  were  :  and  the  wood 
had  entered  into  my  soul. 

My  fellows  in  the  office  would  sometimes  rally  me  upon 
the  trouble  legible  in  my  countenance  ;    but  I   did  not  know 


CHARLES   LAMB  273 

that  it  had  raised  the  suspicions  of  any  of  my  employers,  when 
on  the  5  th  of  last  month,  a  day  ever  to  be  remembered  by  me, 

L ,  the  junior  partner  in  the  firm,  calling  me  on  one  side, 

directly  taxed  me  with  m)-  bad  looks,  and  frankly  inquired  the 
cause  of  them.  So  taxed,  I  honestly  made  confession  of  my 
infirmity,  and  added  that  I  was  afraid  I  should  eventually  be 
obliged  to  resign  his  sei'vice.  He  spoke  some  words  of  course 
to  hearten  me,  and  there  the  matter  rested,  A  whole  week  I 
remained  labouring  under  the  impression  that  I  had  acted  im- 
prudently in  my  disclosure  ;  that  I  had  foolishly  given  a  handle 
against  myself,  and  had  been  anticipating  my  own  dismissal. 
A  week  passed  in  this  manner,  the  most  anxious  one,  I  verily 
believe,  in  niy  whole  life,  when  on  the  evening  of  the  12th  of 
April,  just  as  I  was  about  quitting  my  desk  to  go  home  (it 
might  be  about  eight  o'clock)  I  received  an  awful  summons  to 
attend  the  presence  of  the  whole  assembled  firm  in  the  for- 
midable back  parlour.  I  thought  now  my  time  is  surely  come, 
I  have  done  for  myself,  I  am  going  to  be  told  that  they  have 

no  longer  occasion  for  me.    L ,  I  could  see,  smiled  at  the 

terror  I  was  in,  which  was  a  little  relief  to  me,  —  when  to  my 

utter  astonishment  B ,  the  eldest  partner,  began  a  formal 

harangue  to  me  ort  the  length  of  my  services,  my  very  meri- 
torious conduct  during  the  whole  of  the  time  (the  deuce, 
thought  I,  how  did  he  find  out  that .''  I  protest  I  never  had 
the  confidence  to  think  as  much).  He  went  on  to  descant 
on  the  expediency  of  retiring  at  a  certain  time  of  life  (how 
my  heart  panted  !),  and  asking  me  a  few  questions  as  to  the 
amount  of  my  own  property,  of  which  I  have  a  little,  ended 
with  a  proposal,  to  which  his  three  partners  nodded  a  grave 
assent,  that  I  should  accept  from  the  house,  which  I  had 
served  so  well,  a  pension  for  life  to  the  amount  of  two-thirds 
of  my  accustomed  salary  —  a  magnificent  offer!  I  do  not 
know  what  I  answered  between  surprise  and  gratitude,  but  it 
was  understood  that  I  accepted  their  proposal,  and  I  was  told 
that  I  was  free  from  that  hour  to  leave  their  service.  I  stam- 
mered out  a  bow,  and  at  just  ten  minutes  after  eight  I  went 


2/4  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

home  —  for  ever.  This  noble  benefit  —  gratitude  forbids  me 
to  conceal  their  names  —  I  owe  to  the  kindness  of  the 
most  munificent  firm  in  the  world  —  the  house  of  Boldero, 
Merryweather,  Bosanquet,  and  Lacy. 

Esto  pcrpctiia  I 

For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned,  overwhelmed.  I 
could  only  apprehend  my  felicity ;  I  was  too  confused  to 
taste  it  sincerely.  I  wandered  about,  thinking  I  was  happy, 
and  knowing  that  I  was  not.  I  was  in  the  condition  of  a 
prisoner  in  the  Old  Bastile,  suddenly  let  loose  after  a  forty 
years'  confinement.  I  could  scarce  trust  myself  with  myself. 
It  was  like  passing  out  of  Time  into  Eternity  —  for  it  is  a  sort 
of  Eternity  for  a  man  to  have  his  Time  all  to  himself.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  more  time  on  my  hands  than  I  could 
ever  manage.  From  a  poor  man,  poor  in  Time,  I  was  sud- 
denly lifted  up  into  a  vast  revenue  ;  I  could  see  no  end  of 
my  possessions  ;  I  wanted  some  steward,  or  judicious  bailiff,  to 
manage  my  estates  in  Time  for  me.  And  here  let  me  caution 
persons  grown  old  in  active  business,  not  lightly,  nor  without 
weighing  their  own  resources,  to  forego  their  customary  em- 
ployment all  at  once,  for  there  may  be  danger  in  it.  I  feel  it 
by  myself,  but  I  know  that  my  resources  are  sufficient ;  and 
now  that  those  first  giddy  raptures  have  subsided,  I  have  a 
quiet  home-feeling  of  the  blessedness  of  my  condition.  I  am 
in  no  hurry.  Having  all  holidays,  I  am  as  though  I  had  none. 
If  Time  hung  heavy  upon  me,  I  could  walk  it  away  ;  but  I 
do  not  walk  all  day  long,  as  I  used  to  do  in  those  old  tran- 
sient holidays,  thirty  miles  a  day,  to  make  the  most  of  them. 
If  Time  were  troublesome,  I  could  read  it  away,  but  I  do  not 
read  in  that  violent  measure,  with  which,  having  no  Time  my 
own  but  candlelight  Time,  I  used  to  weary  out  my  head  and 
eye-sight  in  by-gone  winters.  I  walk,  read,  or  scribble  (as  now) 
just  when  the  fit  seizes  me.  I  no  longer  hunt  after  pleasure ; 
I  let  it  come  to  me.    I  am  like  the  man 

• •  that 's  born,  and  lias  his  years  come  to  him, 


In  some  green  desert. 


CHARLES  LAMB  275 

"Years,"  you  will  say;  "what  is  this  superannuated  simple- 
ton calculating  upon  ?  He  has  already  told  us  he  is  past  fifty." 

I  have  indeed  lived  nominally  fifty  years,  but  deduct  out  of 
them  the  hours  which  I  have  lived  to  other  people,  and  not 
to  myself,  and  you  will  find  me  still  a  young  fellow.  For  tJiat 
is  the  only  true  Time,  which  a  man  can  properly  call  his  own, 
that  which  he  has  all  to  himself ;  the  rest,  though  in  some 
sense  he  may  be  said  to  live  it,  is  other  people's  time,  not  his. 
The  remnant  of  my  poor  days,  long  or  short,  is  at  least  mul- 
tiplied for  me  threefold.  My  ten  next  years,  if  I  stretch  so 
far,  will  be  as  long  as  any  preceding  thirty.  'T  is  a  fair  rule- 
of-three  sum. 

Among  the  strange  fantasies  which  beset  me  at  the  com- 
mencement of  my  freedom,  and  of  which  all  traces  are  not 
yet  gone,  one  was  that  a  vast  tract  of  time  had  intervened 
since  I  quitted  the  Counting-House.  I  could  not  conceive  of 
it  as  an  affair  of  yesterday.  The  partners,  and  the  clerks  with 
whom  I  had  for  so  many  years,  and  for  so  many  hours  in  each 
day  of  the  year  been  closely  associated  —  being  suddenly  re- 
moved from  them  —  they  seemed  as  dead  to  me.  There  is 
a  fine  passage,  which  may  serve  to  illustrate  this  fancy,  in  a 
Tragedy  by  Sir  Robert  Howard,  speaking  of  a  friend's  death  : 

"T  was  but  just  now  he  went  away; 


I  have  not  since  had  time  to  shed  a  tear ; 
And  yet  the  distance  does  the  same  appear 
As  if  he  had  been  a  thousand  years  from  me. 
Time  takes  no  measure  in  Eternity. 

To  dissipate  this  awkward  feeling,  I  have  been  fain  to  go 
among  them  once  or  twice  since  ;  to  visit  my  old  desk-fellows 
—  my  co-brethren  of  the  quill  —  that  I  had  left  below  in  the 
state  militant.  Not  all  the  kindness  with  which  they  received 
me  could  quite  restore  to  me  that  pleasant  familiarity  which  I 
had  heretofore  enjoyed  among  them.  We  cracked  some  of  our 
old  jokes,  but  methought  they  went  off  but  faintly.  My  old  desk, 
the  peg  where  I  hung  my  hat,  were  appropriated  to  another. 
I  knew  it  must  be,  but  I  could  not  take  it  kindlv.    D 1  take 


2/6  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

me  if  I  did  not  feel  some  remorse  —  beast,  if  I  liad  not,  — 
at  quitting  my  old  compeers,  the  faithful  partners  of  my  toils 
for  six  and  thirty  years,  that  smoothed  for  me  with  their  jokes 
and  conundrums  the  ruggedness  of  my  professional  road.  Had 
it  been  so  rugged  then  after  all  ?  or  was  I  a  coward  simply  ? 
Well,  it  is  too  late  to  repent ;  and  I  also  know  that  these  sug- 
gestions are  a  common  fallacy  of  the  mind  on  such  occasions. 
But  my  heart  smote  me.  I  had  violently  broken  the  bands  be- 
twixt us.  It  was  at  least  not  courteous.  I  shall  be  some  time 
before  I  get  quite  reconciled  to  the  separation.  Farewell,  old 
cronies,  yet  not  for  long,  for  again  and  again  I  will  come  among 

ye,  if  I  shall  have  your  leave.    Farewell,  Ch ,  dry,  sarcastic, 

and  friendly  !    Do ,  mild,  slow  to  move,  and  gentlemanly  ! 

ri ,  officious  to  do,  and  to  volunteer,  good  services  !  —  and 

thou,  thou  dreary  pile,  fit  mansion  for  a  Gresham  or  a  Whit- 
tington  'of  old,  stately  House  of  Merchants  ;  with  thy  laby- 
rinthine passages,  and  light-excluding,  pent-up  offices,  where 
candles  for  one  half  the  year  supplied  the  place  of  the  sun's 
light ;  unhealthy  contributor  to  my  weal,  stern  fosterer  of  my 
living,  farewell  !  In  thee  remain,  and  not  in  the  obscure  collec- 
tion of  some  wandering  bookseller,  my  "works"!  There  let 
them  rest,  as  I  do  from  my  labours,  piled  on  thy  massy  shelves, 
more  MSS.  in  folio  than  ever  Aquinas  left,  and  full  as  useful ! 
My  mantle  I  bequeath  among  ye. 

A  fortnight  has  passed  since  the  date  of  my  first  communica- 
tion. At  that  period  I  was  approaching  to  tranquillity,  but  had 
not  reached  it.  I  boasted  of  a  calm  indeed,  but  it  was  compara- 
tive only.  Something  of  the  first  flutter  was  left;  an  unsettling 
sense  of  novelty  ;  the  dazzle  to  weak  eyes  of  unaccustomed 
light.  I  missed  my  old  chains,  forsooth,  as  if  they  had  been 
some  necessary  part  of  my  apparel.  I  was  a  poor  Carthusian, 
from  strict  cellular  discipline  suddenly  by  some  revolution  re- 
turned upon  the  world.  I  am  now  as  if  I  had  never  been  other 
than  my  own  master.  It  is  natural  to  me  to  go  where  I  please, 
to  do  what  I  please.  I  find  myself  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day 
in  Bond  Street,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  sauntering 


CHARLIvS   LAMB  277 

there  at  that  very  hour  for  years  past.  I  digress  into  Soho, 
to  explore  a  book-stall.  Methinks  I  have  been  thirty  years  a 
collector.  There  is  nothing  strange  nor  new  in  it.  I  find  my- 
self before  a  fine  picture  in  the  morning.  Was  it  ever  otherwise .-' 
What  is  become  of  Fish  Street  Hill  ?  Where  is  Fenchurch 
Street  .■'  Stones  of  old  Mincing  Lane  which  I  have  worn  with 
my  daily  pilgrimage  for  six  and  thirty  years,  to  the  footsteps  of 
what  toil-worn  clerk  are  your  everlasting  flints  now  vocal  ?  I  in- 
dent the  gayer  flags  of  Pall  Mall.  It  is  'Change  time,  and  I 
am  strangely  among  the  Elgin  marbles.  It  was  no  hyperbole 
when  I  ventured  to  compare  the  change  in  my  condition  to  a 
passing  into  another  world.  Time  stands  still  in  a  manner  to 
me.  I  have  lost  all  distinction  of  season.  I  do  not  know  the 
day  of  the  week,  or  of  the  month.  Each  day  used  to  be  indi- 
vidually felt  by  me  in  its  reference  to  the  foreign  post  days  ; 
in  its  distance  from,  or  propinquity  to  the  next  Sunday.  I  had 
my  Wednesday  feelings,  my  Saturday  nights'  sensations.  The 
genius  of  each  day  was  upon  me  distinctly  during  the  whole  of 
it,  affecting  my  appetite,  spirits,  &c.  The  phantom  of  the  next 
day,  with  the  dreary  five  to  follow,  sate  as  a  load  upon  my  poor 
Sabbath  recreations.  WHiat  charm  has  washed  the  Ethiop  white .'' 
What  is  gone  of  Black  Monday  ?  All  days  are  the  same.  Sun- 
day itself  —  that  unfortunate  failure  of  a  holiday  as  it  too  often 
proved,  what  with  my  sense  of  its  fugitiveness,  and  over-care 
to  get  the  greatest  quantity  of  pleasure  out  of  it  —  is  melted 
down  into  a  week  day.  I  can  spare  to  go  to  church  now,  with- 
out grudging  the  huge  cantle  which  it  used  to  seem  to  cut  out 
of  the  holiday.  I  have  Time  for  everything.  I  can  visit  a  sick 
friend.  I  can  interrupt  the  man  of  much  occupation  when  he 
is  busiest.  I  can  insult  over  him  with  an  invitation  to  take  a 
day's  pleasure  with  me  to  Windsor  this  fine  May-morning.  It 
is  Lucretian  pleasure  to  behold  the  poor  drudges,  whom  I  have 
left  behind  in  the  world,  carking  and  caring ;  like  horses  in  a 
mill,  drudging  on  in  the  same  eternal  round  —  and  what  is  it 
all  for }  A  man  can  never  have  too  much  Time  to  himself, 
nor  too  little  to  do.    Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen  him 


278  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

NOTiiiN'G-TO-DO ;  he  should  do  nothing.  Man,  I  verily  believe,  is 
out  of  his  element  as  long  as  he  is  operative.  I  am  altogether 
for  the  life  contemplative.  Will  no  kindly  earthquake  come  and 
swallow  up  those  accursed  cotton  mills  ?  Take  me  that  lumber 
of  a  desk  there,  and  bowl  it  down 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends. 

I  am  no  longer  *****  *^  clerk  to  the  firm  of,  &c,  I  am 
Retired  Leisure.  I  am  to  be  met  with  in  trim  gardens.  I  am 
already  come  to  be  known  by  my  vacant  face  and  careless  ges- 
ture, perambulating  at  no  fixed  pace  nor  with  any  settled  pur- 
pose. I  walk  about;  not  to  and  from.  They  tell  me,  a  certain 
r;/w  digiiitatc  air,  that  has  been  buried  so  long  with  my  other 
good  parts,  has  begun  to  shoot  forth  in  my  person.  I  grow  into 
gentility  perceptibly.  When  I  take  up  a  newspaper  it  is  to  read 
the  state  of  the  opera.  Opus  opcr-atinn  est.  I  have  done  all  that 
I  came  into  this  world  to  do.  I  have  worked  task-work,  and 
have  the  rest  of  the  day  to  myself. 


JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH    HUNT  (1784-1859) 

AUTUMNAL  COMMENCEMENT  OF  FIRES 

Indicator,  October  20,  i8ig 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  fires  again  !  We  have  not  time 
to  regret  summer,  when  the  cold  fogs  begin  to  force  upon  us 
the  necessity  of  a  new  kind  of  warmth  ;  —  a  warmth  not  so  fine 
as  sunshine,  but  as  manners  go,  more  sociable.  The  English 
get  together  over  their  fires  as  the  Italians  do  in  their  summer 
shade.  We  do  not  enjoy  our  sunshme  as  we  ought;  our  climate 
seems  to  render  us  almost  unaware  that  the  weather  is  fine, 
when  it  really  becomes  so  ;  but  for  the  same  reason  we  make 
as  much  of  our  winter  as  the  anti-social  habits  that  have  grown 
upon  us  from  other  causes  will  allow.  And  for  a  similar  rea^- 
son,  the  southern  European  is  unprepared  for  a  cold  day.  The 
houses  in  many  parts  of  Italy  are  summer  houses,  unprepared 
for  winter  ;  so  that  when  a  fit  of  cold  weather  comes,  the  dis- 
mayed inhabitant,  walking  and  shivering  about  with  a  little  bra- 
zier in  his  hands,  presents  an  awkward  image  of  insufficiency 
and  perplexity.  A  few  of  our  fogs,  shutting  up  the  sight  of 
every  thing  out  of  doors  and  making  the  trees  and  the  eaves 
of  the  houses  drip  like  rain,  would  admonish  him  to  get 
warm  in  good  earnest.  If  "the  web  of  our  life"  is  always  to 
be  "of  a  mingled  yarn,"  a  good  warm  hearth-rug  is  not  the 
worst  part  of  the  manufacture. 

Here  we  are  then  again,  with  our  fire  before  us  and  our 
books  on  each  side.  What  shall  we  do .''  Shall  we  take  out  a 
Life  of  somebody,  or  a  Theocritus,  or  Petrarch,  or  Ariosto,  or 
Montaigne,  or  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  Moliere,  or  Shakespeare 
who  includes  them  all .''  Or  shall  we  7'cad  an  engraving  from 
Poussin  or  Raphael  1   Or  shall  we  sit  with  tilted  chairs,  planting 

279 


28o  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

our  wrists  upon  our  knees  and  toasting  the  up-turned  palms 
of  our  hands,  while  we  discourse  of  manners  and  man's  heart 
and  hopes,  with  at  least  a  sincerity,  a  good  intention,  and  good- 
nature that  shall  warrant  what  we  say  with  the  sincere,  the 
good-intentioned,  and  the  good-natured  ? 

Ah  —  take  care.  You  see  what  that  old-looking  saucer  is, 
with  a  handle  to  it  ?  It  is  a  venerable  piece  of  earthenware, 
which  may  have  been  worth  to  an  Athenian,  about  two-pence  ; 
but  to  an  author,  is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  ever. he  could 

—  deny  for  it.  And  yet  he  would  deny  it  too.  It  will  fetch  his 
imagination  more  than  ever  it  fetched  potter  or  penny-maker. 
Its  little  shallow  circle  overflows  with  the  milk  and  honey  of  a 
thousand  pleasant  associations.  This  is  one  of  the  uses  of  hav- 
ing mantle-pieces.  You  ma)j  often  see  on  no  very  rich  mantle- 
piece  a  representative  body  of  all  the  elements  physical  and 
intellectual — a  shell  for  the  sea,  a  stuffed  bird  or  some  feathers 
for  the  air,  a  curious  piece  of  mineral  for  the  earth,  a  glass  of 
water  with  some  flowers  in  it  for  the  visible  process  of  creation, 

—  a  cast  from  sculpture  for  the  mind  of  man  ;  —  and  under- 
neath all,  is  the  bright  and  ever-springing  fire,  running  up 
through  them  heavenwards,  like  hope  through  materiality.  We 
like  to  have  any  little  curiosity  of  the  mantle-piece  kind  within 
our  reach  and  inspection.  Vor  the  same  reason,  we  like  a  small 
study,  where  we  are  almost  in  contact  with  our  books.  We  like 
to  feel  them  about  us  —  to  be  in  the  arms  of  our  mistress  Phi- 
losophy, rather  than  see  her  from  a  distance.  To  have  a  huge 
apartment  for  a  study  is  like  lying  in  the  great  bed  at  Ware,  or 
being  snug  on  a  milestone  upon  Hounslow  Heath.  It  is  space 
and  physical  activity,  not  repose  and  concentration.  It  is  fit 
only  for  grandeur  and  ostentation,  — for  those  who  have  secre- 
taries, and  are  to  be  approached  like  gods  in  a  temple.  The 
Archbishop  of  Toledo,  no  doubt,  wrote  his  homilies  in  a  room 
ninety  feet  long.  The  Marquis  Marialva  must  have  been  ap- 
proached through  whole  ranks  of  glittering  authors,  standing 
at  due  distance.  But  Ariosto,  whose  mind  could  fly  out  of  its 
nest  over  all  nature,  wrote  over  the  house  he  built,  ^^ parva,  scd 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH   HUNT  281 

apta  luihi"  —  small,  but  suited  to  me.  However,  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  he  could  not  afford  a  large.  He  was  a  Duodena- 
rian,  in  that  respect,  like  ourselves.  We  do  not  know  how  our 
ideas  of  a  study  might  expand  with  our  walls.  Montaigne,  who 
was  Montaigne  "  of  that  ilk  "  and  lord  of  a  great  chateau,  had 
a  study  "  of  sixteen  paces  in  diameter,  with  three  noble  and  free 
prospects."  He  congratulates  himself,  at  the  same  time,  on  its 
circular  figure,  evidently  from  a  feeling  allied  to  the  one  in  favour 
of  smallness.  "  The  figure  of  my  study,"  says  he,  "  is  round, 
and  has  no  more  flat  (bare)  wall  than  what  is  taken  up  by  my 
table  and  my  chairs  ;  so  that  the  remaining  parts  of  the  circle 
present  me  with  a  view  of  all  my  books  at  once,  set  upon 
five  degrees  of  shelves  round  about  me."  (Cotton's  Montaigne, 
B.  3,  ch.  3.) 

A  great  prospect  we  hold  to  be  a  very  disputable  advantage, 
upon  the  same  reasoning  as  before  ;  but  we  like  to  have  some 
green  boughs  about  our  windows,  and  to  fancy  ourselves  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  country,  when  we  are  not  there.  Milton 
expressed  a  wish  with  regard  to  his  study  extremely  suitable  to 
our  present  purpose.  He  would  have  the  lamp  in  it  seen  ;  thus 
letting  others  into  a  share  of  his  enjoyments  by  the  imagination 
of  them. 

And  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes  ;  or  unsphere 
The  Spirit  of  Plato,  to  mifold 
What  world  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook. 

There  is  a  fine  passionate^burst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  subject  of 
a  study  in  Fletcher's  play  of  the  Elder  BrotJier,  Act  i ,  Scene  2  : 

Sordid  and  dunghill  minds,  composed  of  earth, 
In  that  gross  elements  fix  all  their  happiness : 
But  purer  spirits,  purged  and  refined, 
Shake  off  that  clog  of  human  frailty.    Give  me 
Leave  to  enjoy  myself.    That  place  that  does 


282  THE  P:NGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Contain  my  books,  the  best  companions,  is 

To  me  a  glorious  court,  where  hourly  I 

Converse  with  the  old  sages  and  philosophers ; 

And  sometimes  for  variety  I  confer 

With  kings  and  emperors,  and  weigh  their  counsels ; 

Calling  their  victories,  if  unjustly  got, 

Unto  a  strict  account ;   and  in  my  fancy, 

Deface  their  ill-placed  statues.    Can  I  then 

Part  with  such  constant  pleasures,  to  embrace 

Uncertain  vanities?    No,  be  it  your  care 

To  augment  a  heap  of  wealth  :   it  shall  be  mine 

To  increase  in  knowledge.    Lights  there  for  my  study. 


GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS 

Indicator,  January  19,  1820 

An  Italian  author — Giulio  Cordara,  a  Jesuit  —  has  written 
a  poem  upon  insects,  which  he  begins  by  insisting  that  those 
troublesome  and  abominable  little  animals  were  created  for 
our  annoyance,  and  that  they  were  certainly  not  inhabitants  of 
Paradise.  We  of  the  North  may  dispute  this  piece  of  theol- 
ogy ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  as  clear  as  the  snow  on  the 
house-tops  that  Adam  was  not  under  the  necessity  of  shaving  ; 
and  that  when  Eve  walked  out  of  her  delicious  bower,  she  did 
not  step  upon  ice  threfe  inches  thick. 

Some  people  say  it  is  a  very  easy  thing  to  get  up  of  a  cold 
morning.  You  have  only,  they  tell  you,  to  take  the  resolution  ; 
and  the  thing  is  done.  This  may  be  very  true  ;  just  as  a  boy 
at  school  has  only  to  take  a  flogging,  and  the  thing  is  over. 
But  we  have  not  at  all  made  up  our  minds  upon  it ;  and  we 
find  it  a  very  pleasant  exercise  to  discuss  the  matter,  candidly, 
before  we  get  up.  This  at  least  is  not  idling,  though  it  may 
be  lying.  It  affords  an  excellent  answer  to  those  who  ask  how 
lying  in  bed  can  be  indulged  in  by  a  reasoning  being,  —  a 
rational  creature.  How  1  Why  with  the  argument  calmly  at 
work  in  one's  head,  and  the  clothes  over  one's  shoulder.  Oh 
—  it  is  a  fine  way  of  spending  a  sensible,  impartial  half-hour. 


JAMES   HENRY   J.EIGH    HUNT  283 

If  these  people  would  be  more  charitable,  they  would  get  on 
with  their  argument  better.  But  they  are  apt  to  reason  so  ill, 
and  to  assert  so  dogmatically,  that  one  could  wish  to  have  them 
stand  round  one's  bed  of  a  bitter  morning,  and  lie  before  their 
faces.  They  ought  to  hear  both  sides  of  the  bed,  the  inside  and 
out.  If  they  cannot  entertain  themselves  with  their  own  thoughts 
for  half  an  hour  or  so,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  those  who  can. 

Candid  enquiries  into  one's  decumbency,  besides  the  greater 
or  less  privileges  to  be  allowed  a  man  in  proportion  to  his 
ability  of  keeping  early  hours,  the  work  given  his  faculties,  &c., 
will  at  least  concede  their  due  merits  to  such  representations 
as  the  following.  In  the  first  place,  says  the  injured  but  calm 
appealer,  I  have  been  warm  all  night,  and  find  my  system  in 
a  state  perfectly  suitable  to  a  warm-blooded  animal.  To  get 
out  of  this  state  into  the  cold,  besides  the  inharmonious  and 
uncritical  abruptness  of  the  transition,  is  so  unnatural  to  such 
a  creature  that  the  poets,  refining  upon  the  tortures  of  the 
damned,  make  one  of  their  greatest  agonies  consist  in  being 
suddenh'  transported  from  heat  to  cold,  —  from  fire  to  ice. 
They  are  "haled"  out  of  their  "beds,"  says  Milton,  by 
"harpy-footed  furies," — fellows  who  come  to  call  them. — 
On  my  first  mo\-ement  towards  the  anticipation  of  getting  up, 
I  find  that  such  parts  of  the  sheets  and  bolster  as  are  exposed 
to  the  air  of  the  room  are  stone  cold.  On  opening  my  eyes, 
the  first  thing  that  meets  them  is  my  own  breath  rolling  forth, 
as  if  in  the  open  air,  like  smoke  out  of  a  chimney.  Think  of 
this  symptom.  Then  I  turn  my  eyes  sideways  and  see  the 
window  all  frozen  over.  Think  of  that.  Then  the  servant 
comes  in.  "  It  is  very  cold  this  morning,  is  it  not .?  "  —  "  Very 
cold,  Sir."  —  "  Very  cold  indeed,  is  n't  it  ?  "  —  "  Very  cold 
indeed,  Sir."  —  "  More  than  usually  so,  isn't  it,  even  for  this 
weather.?"  (Here  the  servant's  wit  and  good  nature  are  put 
to  a  considerable  test,  and  the  enquirer  lies  on  thorns  for  the 

answer.)   "Why,  Sir I  think  it  />."   (Good  creature !  There 

is  not  a  better  or  more  truth-telling  servant  going.)  "  I  must 
x'ise,  however  —  get  me  some  warm  water."  —  Here  comes  a 


284  'l^HE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

fine  interval  between  the  departure  of  tlie  servant  and  the 
arrival  of  the  hot  water;  during  which,  of  course,  it  is  of  "  no 
use  "  to  get  up.  The  hot  water  comes.  "Is  it  quite  hot  ?  "  — 
"Yes,  Sir."  —  "  Perhaps  too  hot  for  shaving:  I  must  wait  a 
little.?"  —  "  No,  Sir;  it  will  just  do."  (There  is  an  over-nice 
propriety  sometimes,  an  officious  zeal  of  virtue,  a  little  trouble- 
some.) "Oh  —  the  shirt  —  you  must  air  my  clean  shirt;  — 
linen  gets  very  damp  this  weather."  —  "Yes,  Sir."  Here 
another  delicious  five  minutes.  A  knock  at  the  door.  "  Oh, 
the  shirt  —  very  well.  My  stockings — I  think  the  stockings 
had  better  be  aired  too."  —  "  Very  well.  Sir."  —  Here  another 
interval.  At  length  everything  is  ready,  except  myself.  I  now, 
continues  our  incumbent  (a  happy  word,  by  the  by,  for  a  coun- 
try vicar)  —  I  now  cannot  help  thinking  a  good  deal  —  who 
can  .''  —  upon  the  unnecessary  and  villainous  custom  of  shaving  : 
it  is  a  thing  so  unmanly  (here  I  nestle  closer)  —  so  effeminate 
(here  I  recoil  from  an  unlucky  step  into  the  colder  part  of  the 
bed).  —  No  wonder  that  the  Queen  of  France  took  part  with 
the  rebels  against  that  degenerate  King,  her  husband,  who  first 
affronted  her  smooth  visage  with  a  face  like  her  own.  The 
lunperor  Julian  never  showed  the  luxuriency  of  his  genius  to 
better  advantage  than  in  reviving  the  flowing  beard.  Look  at 
Cardinal  licmbo's  picture  —  at  Michael  A ngelo's  —  at  Titian's 
—  at  Shakespeare's  —  at  Fletcher's  —  at  Spenser's  —  at  Chau- 
cer's—  at  Alfred's  —  at  Plato's — I  could  name  a  great  man 
for  eveiy  tick  of  my  watch.  —  Look  at  the  Turks,  a  grave  and 
otiose  people. — Think  of  Haroun  Al  Raschid  and  Bed-ridden 
Hassan. —  Think  of  VVortley  Montague,  the  worthy  son  of  his 
mother,  above  the  prejudice  of  his  time.  —  Look  at  the  Persian 
gentlemen,  whom  one  is  ashamed  of  meeting  about  the  sub- 
urbs, their  dress  and  appearance  are  so  much  finer  than  our 
own.  —  Lastly,  think  of  the  razor  itself — how  totally  opposed 
to  every  sensation  of  bed  —  how  cold,  how  edgy,  how  hard  ! 
how  utterly  different  from  anything  like  the  warm  and  circling 

amplitude,  which 

Sweetly  recommends  itself 

Unto  our  gentle  senses. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH   HUNT  285 

Add  to  this,  benumbed  fingers,  which  may  hel[)  )'ou  to  cut 
yourself,  a  quivering  body,  a  frozen  towel,  and  an  ewer  full  of 
ice,  and  he  that  says  there  is  nothing  to  oppose  in  all  this,  only 
shows  that  he  has  no  merit  in  opposing  it. 

Thomson,  the  poet,  who  exclaims  in  his  Seasons  — 

Falsely  luxurious  !   \\"\\\  not  man  awake  ? 

used  to  lie  in  bed  till  noon,  because  he  said  he  had  po  motive 
in  getting  up.  He  could  imagine  the  good  of  rising  ;  but  then 
he  could  also  imagine  the  good  of  lying  still ;  and  his  excla- 
mation, it  must  be  allowed,  was  made  upon  summer-time,  not 
winter.  We  must  proportion  the  argument  to  the  individual 
character.  A  money-getter  may  be  drawn  out  of  his  bed  by 
three  and  fourpence  ;  but  this  will  not  suffice  for  a  student. 
A  proud  man  may  say  "  What  shall  I  think  of  myself,  if  I 
don't  get  up  .^  "  but  the  more  humble  one  will  be  content  to 
waive  this  prodigious  notion  of  himself,  out  of  respect  to  his 
kindly  bed.  The  mechanical  man  shall  get  up  without  any  ado 
at  all ;  and  so  shall  the  barometer.  An  ingenious  lier  in  bed 
will  find  hard  matter  of  discussion  even  on  the  score  of  health 
and  longevity.  He  will  ask  us  for  our  proofs  and  precedents 
of  the  ill  effects  of  lying  later  in  cold  weather  ;  and  sophisticate 
much  on  the  advantages  of  an  even  temperature  of  body  ;  of 
the  natural  propensity  (pretty  universal)  to  have  one's  way  ; 
and  of  the  animals  that  roll  themselves  up,  and  sleep  all  the 
winter.  As  to  longevity,  he  will  ask  whether  the  longest  is  of 
necessity  the  best ;  and  whether  Holborn  is  the  handsomest 
street  in  London. 

THE  OLD   GENTLEMAN 

Indicator,  February  2,  1820 

Our  Old  Gentleman,  in  order  to  be  exclusively  himself,  must 
be  either  a  widower  or  a  bachelor.  Suppose  the  former.  We 
do  not  mention  his  precise  age,  which  would  be  invidious  ;  — 
nor  whether  he  wears  his  own  hair  or  a  wig ;  which  would  be 


286  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

wanting  in  universality.  If  a  wig,  it  is  a  compromise  be- 
tween tlie  more  modern  scratch  and  the  departed  glory  of  the 
toupee.  If  his  own  hair,  it  is  white,  in  spite  of  his  favourite 
grandson,  who  used  to  get  on  the  chair  behind  him,  and  pull 
the  silver  hairs  out,  ten  years  ago.  If  he  is  bald  at  top,  the 
hairdresser,  hovering  and  breathing  about  him  like  a  second 
youth,  takes  care  to  give  the  bald  place  as  much  powder  as  the 
covered  ;  in  order  -that  he  may  convey  to  the  sensorium  within 
a  pleasing  indistinctness  of  idea  respecting  the  exact  limits 
of  skin  and  hair.  He  is  very  clean  and  neat ;  and  in  warm 
weather,  is  proud  of  opening  his  waistcoat  half  way  down,  and 
letting  so  much  of  his  frill  be  seen,  in  order  to  show  his  hardi- 
ness as  well  as  taste.  His  watch  and  shirt-buttons  are  of  the 
best ;  and  he  does  not  care  if  he  has  two  rings  on  a  finger. 
If  his  watch  ever  failed  him  at  the  club  or  coffee-house,  he 
would  take  a  walk  every  day  to  the  nearest  clock  of  good 
character,  purely  to  keep  it  right.  He  has  a  cane  at  home, 
but  seldom  uses  it,  on  finding  it  out  of  fashion  with  his  elderly 
juniors.  He  has  a  small  cocked  hat  for  gala  days,  which  he 
lifts  higher  from  his  head  than  the  round  one,  v.'hen  bowed  to. 
In  his  pockets  are  two  handkerchiefs  (one  for  the  neck  at 
nighttime),  his  spectacles,  and  his  pocket-book.  The  pocket- 
book,  among  other  things,  contains  a  receipt  for  a  cough,  and 
some  verses  cut  out  of  an  odd  sheet  of  an  old  magazine,  on 
the  lovely   Duchess   of  A.,    beginning  — 

When  beauteous  Mira  walks  the  plain. 

He  intends  this  for  a  common-place  book  which  he  keeps, 
consisting  of  passages  in  verse  and  prose  cut  out  of  newspapers 
and  magazines,  and  pasted  in  columns  ;  some  of  them  rather 
gay.  His  principal  other  books  are  Shakespeare's  Plays  and 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost ;  the  Spectator,  the  History  of  Eng- 
la7id;  the  works  of  Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  Pope,  and  Church- 
ill ;  Middleton's  GeograpJiy,  TJic  Gentlemaii s  Afagaoijie ;  Sir 
John  Sinclair  on  Longevity ;  several  plays  with  portraits  in 
character  ;  AecoiDit  of  EHj::abeth  Canning,  Meinoirs  of  George 


JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH   HUNT  287 

//////  Bellamy,  'Poetical  AmtLsements  at  Bath-EastoJi,  Blair's 
Works,  Elegant  Extracts',  Junius  as  originally  published;  a 
few  pamphlets  on  the  American  War  and  Lord  George  Gor- 
don, &c.  and  one  on  the  French  Revolution.  In  his  sitting 
rooms  are  some  engravings  from  Hogarth  and  Sir  Joshua  ;  an 
engraved  portrait  of  the  Marquis  of  Granby  ;  ditto  of  M.  le 
Comte  de  Grasse  surrendering  to  Admiral  Rodney  ;  a  humor- 
ous piece  after  Penny  ;  and  a  portrait  of  himself,  painted  by 
Sir  Joshua.  His  wife's  portrait  is  in  his  chamber,  looking  upon 
his  bed.  She  is  a  little  girl,  stepping  forward  with  a  smile  and 
a  pointed  toe,  as  if  going  to  dance.  He  lost  her  when  she 
was  sixty. 

The  Old  Gendeman  is  an  early  riser,  because  he  intends  to 
live  at  least  twenty  years  longer.  He  continues  to  take  tea  for 
breakfast,  in  spite  of  what  is  said  against  its  nervous  effects  ; 
having  been  satisfied  on  that  point  some  years  ago  by  Dr.  John- 
son's criticism  on  Hanway,  and  a  great  liking  for  tea  previ- 
ously. His  china  cups  and  saucers  have  been  broken  since 
his  wife's  death,  all  but  one,  which  is  religiously  kept  for  his 
use.  Jle  passes  his  morning  in  walking  or  riding,  looking  in 
at  auctions,  looking  after  his  India  bonds  or  some  such  money 
securities,  furthering  some  subscription  set  on  foot  by  his  ex- 
cellent friend  Sir  John,  or  cheapening  a  new  old  print  for 
his  portfolio.  He  also  hears  of  the  newspapers  ;  not  caring  to 
see  them  till  after  dinner  at  the  coffee-house.  He  may  also 
cheapen  a  fish  or  so  ;  the  fishmonger  soliciting  his  doubting 
eye  as  he  passes,  with  a  profound  bow  of  recognition.  He 
eats  a  pear  before  dinner. 

His  dinner  at  the  coffee-house  is  served  up  to  him  at  the 
accustomed  hour,  in  the  old  accustomed  way,  and  by  the  ac- 
customed waiter.  If  William  did  not  bring  it,  the  fish  would 
be  sure  to  be  stale,  and  the  flesh  new.  He  eats  no  tart ;  or 
if  he. ventures  on  a  little,  takes  cheese  with  it.  You  might  as 
soon  attempt  to  persuade  him  out  of  his  senses,  as  that  cheese 
is  not  good  for  digestion.  He  takes  port ;  and  if  he  has  drunk 
more  than  usual,  and  in  a  more  private  place,  may  be  induced 


288  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

by  some  respectful  inquiries  respecting  the  old  style  of  music, 
to    sing   a   song   composed    by   Mr.    Oswald   or   Mr,    Lampe, 

Chloe,  by  that  borrowed  kiss, 

Come,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose ; 

or  his  wife's  favourite  ballad  beginning  — 

At  Upton  on  the  Hill 
There  lived  a  happy  pair. 

Of  course,  no  such  exploit  can  take  place  in  the  coffee-room  ; 
but  he  will  canvass  the  theory  of  that  matter  there  with  you, 
or  discuss  the  weather,  or  the  markets,  or  the  theatres,  or 
the  merits  of  "  my  Lord  North  "  or  "  my  Lord  Rockingham  "  ; 
for  he  rarely  says  simply,  lord;  it  is  generally  "my  lord," 
trippingly  and  genteelly  off  the  tongue.  If  alone  after  dinner, 
his  great  delight  is  the  newspaper ;  which  he  prepares  to  read 
by  wiping  his  spectacles,  carefully  adjusting  them  on  his  eyes, 
and  drawing  the  candle  close  to  him,  so  as  to  stand  sideways 
betwixt  his  ocular  aim  and  the  small  type.  He  then  holds  the 
paper  at  arm's  length,  and  dropping  his  eyelids  half  down  and 
his  mouth  half  open,  takes  cognizance  of  the  day's  informa- 
tion. If  he  leaves  off,  it  is  only  when  the  door  is  opened  by 
a  new-comer,  or  when  he  suspects  somebody  is  over-anxious 
to  get  the  paper  out  of  his  hand.  On  the^e  occasions,  he 
gives  an  important  hem  !  or  so  ;  and  resumes. 

In  the  evening,  our  Old  Gentleman  is  fond  of  going  to 
the  theatre,  or  of  having  a  game  of  cards.  If  he  enjoys  the 
latter  at  his  own  house  or  lodgings,  he  likes  to  play  with  some 
friends  whom  he  has  known  for  many  years  ;  but  an  elderly 
stranger  may  be  introduced,  if  quiet  and  scientific  ;  and  the 
privilege  is  extended  to  younger  men  of  letters  ;  who,  if  ill 
players,  are  good  losers.  Not  that  he  is  a  miser ;  but  to  win 
money  at  cards  is  like  proving  his  victory  by  getting  the  bag- 
gage ;  and  to  win  of  a  younger  man  is  a  substitute  for  his 
not  being  able  to  beat  him  at  rackets.  He  breaks  up  early, 
whether  at  home  or  abroad. 


JAMES   HENRY  LKlCAl   HUNT  289 

At  the  theatre,  he  hkes  a  front  row  in  the  pit.  He  comes 
early,  if  he  can  do  so  without  getting  into  a  squeeze,  and  sits 
patiently  waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain,  with  his 
hands  placidly  lying  one  over  the  other  on  the  top  of  his  stick. 
He  generously  admires  some  of  the  best  performers,  but  thinks 
them  far  inferior  to  Garrick,  Woodward,  and  Clive.  During 
splendid  scenes,  he  is  anxious  that  the  little  boy  should  see. 

He  has  been  induced  to  look  in  at  Vauxhall  again,  but 
likes  it  still  less  than  he  did  years  back,  and  cannot  bear  it  in 
comparison  with  Ranelagh.  He  thinks  everything  looks  poor, 
flaring,  and  jaded.  "  Ah  !  "  says  he,  with  a  sort  of  trium- 
phant sigh,  "  Ranelagh  was  a  noble  place  !  vSuch  taste,  such 
elegance,  such  beauty !  There  was  the  Duchess  of  A.,  the 
finest  woman  in  England,  Sir ;  and  Mrs.  L.,  a  mighty  fine 
creature ;  and  Lady  Susan  what 's  her  name,  that  had  that 
unfortunate  affair  with  Sir  Charles.  Sir,  they  came  swimming 
by  you  like  the  swans." 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  very  particular  in  having  his  slip- 
pers ready  for  him  at  the  fire,  when  he  comes  home.  He  is 
also  extremely  choice  in  his  snuff,  and  delights  to  get  a  fresh 
boxful  in  Tavistock  Street,  in  his  way  to  the  theatre.  His 
box  is  a  curiosity  from  India.  He  calls  favourite  young  ladies 
by  their  Christian  names,  however  slightly  acquainted  with 
them  ;  and  has  a  privilege  also  of  saluting  all  brides,  mothers, 
and  indeed  every  species  of  lady  on  the  least  holiday  occasion. 
If  the  husband,  for  instance,  has  met  with  a  piece  of  luck,  he 
instantly  moves  forward,  and  gravely  kisses  the  wife  on  the 
cheek.  The  wife  then  says,  "  My  niece.  Sir,  from  the  coun- 
try "  ;  and  he  kisses  the  niece.  The  niece,  seeing  her  cousin 
biting  her  lips  at  the  joke,  says,  "  My  cousin  Harriet,  Sir  "  ; 
and  he  kisses  the  cousin.  He  never  recollects  such  weather, 
except  during  the  Great  Frost,  or  when  he  rode  down  with 
Jack  Skrimshire  to  Newmarket.  He  grows  young  again  in 
his  little  grandchildren,  especially  the  one  which  he  thinks 
most  like  himself ;  which  is  the  handsomest.  Yet  he  likes 
best  perhaps  the  one  most  resembling  his  wife ;  and  will  sit 


290  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

with  him  on  his  lap,  holding  his  hand  in  silence,  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  together.  He  plays  most  tricks  with  the  former, 
and  makes  him  sneeze.  He  asks  little  boys  in  general  who 
was  the  father  of  Zebedee's  children.  If  his  grandsons  are  at 
school,  he  often  goes  to  see  them  ;  and  makes  them  blush  by 
telling  the  master  or  the  upper-scholars,  that  they  are  fine 
boys,  and  of  a  precocious  genius.  He  is  much  struck  when 
an  old  acquaintance  dies,  but  adds  that  he  lived  too  fast ;  and 
that  poor  Bob  was  a  sad  dog  in  his  youth  ;  "a  very  sad  dog. 
Sir,  mightily  set  upon  a  short  life  and  a  merry  one." 

When  he  gets  very  old  indeed,  he  will  sit  for  whole  eve- 
nings, and  say  little  or  nothing ;  but  informs  you  that  there  is 
Mrs.  Jones  (the  housekeeper)  —  ''Shell  talk." 


DEATHS   OF  LITTLE  CHILDREN 

Indicator,  April  5,  1820 

A  Grecian  philosopher  being  asked  why  he  wept  for  the 
death  of  his  son,  since  the  sorrow  w'as  in  vain,  replied,  "  I 
weep  on  that  account."  And  his  answer  became  his  wisdom. 
It  is  only  for  sophists  to  pretend  that  we,  whose  eyes  contain 
the  fountains  of  tears,  need  never  give  way  to  them.  It  would 
be  unwise  not  to  do  so  on  some  occasions.  Sorrow  unlocks 
them  in  her  balmy  moods.  The  first  bursts  may  be  bitter  and 
overwhelming  ;  but  the  soil  on  -which  they  pour  would  be 
worse  without  thein.  They  refresh  the  fever  of  the  soul,  — 
the  dry  misery,  which  parches  the  countenance  into  furrows, 
and  renders  us  liable  to  our  most  terrible  "  flesh-quakes." 

There  are  sorrows,  it  is  true,  so  great  that  to  give  them 
some  of  the  ordinary  vents  is  to  run  a  hazard  of  being  over- 
thrown. These  we  must  rather  strengthen  ourselves  to  resist, 
or  bow  quietly  and  dryly  down  in  order  to  let  them  pass  over 
us,  as  the  traveller  does  the  wind  of  the  desert.  But  w'here 
we  feel  that  tears  would  relieve  us,  it  is  false  philosophy  to 
deny  ourselves  at  least  that  first  refreshment ;  and  it  is  always 


JAMES   HENRY  LE[(]II   HUNT  291 

false  consolation  to  tell  people  that  because  they  cannot  help 
a  thing,  they  are  not  to  mind  it.  The  true  way  is  to  let  them 
grapple  with  the  unavoidable  sorrow,  and  try  to  win  it  into 
gentleness  by  a  reasonable  yielding.  There  are  griefs  so  gentle 
in  their  very  nature  that  it  would  be  worse  than  false  heroism 
to  refuse  them  a  tear.  Of  this  kind  are  the  deaths  of  infants. 
Particular  circumstances  may  render  it  more  or  less  advisable 
to  indulge  in  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  little  child  ;  but  in  gen- 
eral, parents  sliould  be  no  more  advised  to  repress  their  first 
tears  on  such  an  occasion,  than  to  repress  their  smiles  towards 
a  child  surviving,  or  to  indulge  in  any  other  sympathy.  It  is 
an  appeal  to  the  same  gentle  tenderness  ;  and  such  appeals 
are  never  made  in  vain.  The  end  of  them  is  an  acquittal 
from^  the  harsher  bonds  of  affliction,  —  from  the  tying  down 
of  the  spirit  to  one  melancholy  idea. 

It  is  the  nature  of  tears  of  this  kind,  however  strongly  they 
may  gush  forth,  to  run  into  quiet  waters  at  last.  We  cannot 
easily,  for  the  whole  course  of  our  lives,  think  with  pain  of 
any  good  and  kind  person  whom  we  have  lost.  It  is  the 
divine  nature  of  their  qualities  to  conquer  pain  and  death 
itself ;  to  turn  the  memory  of  them  into  pleasure  ;  to  sur\ive 
with  a  placid  aspect  in  our  imaginations.  We  are  writing,  at 
this  moment,  just  opposite  a  spot  which  contains  the  grave  of 
one  inexpressibly  dear  to  us.  W'e  see  from  our  window  the 
trees  about  it,  and  the  church-spire.  The  green  fields  lie 
around.  The  clouds  are  travelling  overhead,  alternately  tak- 
ing away  the  sunshine  and  restoring  it.  The  vernal  winds, 
piping  of  the  flowery  summer-time,  are  nevertheless  calling  to 
mind  the  far  distant  and  dangerous  ocean,  which  the  heart 
that  lies  in  that  grave  had  many  reasons  to  think  of.  And 
yet  the  sight  of  this  spot  does  not  give  us  pain.  So  far  from 
it,  it  is  the  existence  of  that  grave  which  doubles  every  charm 
of  the  spot ;  which  links  the  pleasures  of  our  childhood  and 
manhood  together ;  which  puts  a  hushing  tenderness  in  the 
winds,  and  a  patient  joy  upon  the  landscape  ;  which  seems  to 
unite  heaven  and  earth,   mortality  and   immortality,   the  grass 


292  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  the  tomb  and  the  grass  of  the  green  field,  and  gives  a 
more  maternal  aspect  to  the  whole  kindness  of  nature.  It 
does  not  hinder  gaiety  itself.  Happiness  was  what  its  tenant, 
through  all  her  troubles,  would  have  diffused.  To  diffuse  hap- 
piness, and  to  enjoy  it,  is  not  only  carrying  on  her  wishes, 
but  realizing  her  hopes  ;  and  gaiety,  freed  from  its  only  pollu- 
tions, malignity  and  want  of  sympathy,  is  but  a  child  playing 
about  the  knees  of  its  mother. 

The  remembered  innocence  and  endearments  of  a  child 
stand  us  in  stead  of  virtues  that  have  died  older.  Children 
have  not  exercised  the  voluntary  offices  of  friendship  ;  they 
have  not  chosen  to  be  kind  and  good  to  us  ;  nor  stood  by  us, 
from  conscious  will,  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  Ikit  they  have 
shared  their  pleasures  and  pains  with  us  as  well  as  they  could  : 
the  interchange  of  good  offices  between  us  has,  of  necessity, 
been  less  mingled  with  the  troubles  of  the  world  ;  the  sorrow 
arising  from  their  death  is  the  only  one  which  we  can  asso- 
ciate with  their  memories.  These  are  happy  thoughts  that 
cannot  die.  Our  loss  may  always  render  them  pensive ;  but 
they  will  not  always  be  painful.  It  is  a  part  of  the  benignity 
of  Nature,  that  pain  does  not  survive  like  pleasure,  at  any 
time,  much  less  where  the  cause  of  it  is  an  innocent  one.  The 
smile  will  remain  reflected  by  memory,  as  the  moon  reflects 
the  light  upon  us  when  the  sun  has  gone  into  heaven. 

When  writers  like  ourselves  quarrel  with  earthly  pain  (we 
mean  writers  of  the  same  intentions,  without  implying,  of 
course,  anything  about  abilities  or  otherwise)  they  are  mis- 
understood if  they  are  supposed  to  quarrel  with  pains  of  every 
sort.  This  would  be  idle  and  effeminate.  They  do  not  pre 
tend,  indeed,  that  humanity  might  not  wish,  if  it  could,  to  be 
entirely  free  from  pain  ;  for  it  endeavours  at  all  times  to  turn 
pain  into  pleasure,  or  at  least  to  set  off  the  one  with  the  other ; 
to  make  the  former  a  zest,  and  the  latter  a  refreshment.  The 
most  unaffected  dignity  of  suffering  does  this ;  and  if  wise, 
acknowledges  it.  The  greatest  benevolence  towards  others, 
the  most  unselfish  relish  of  their  pleasures,  even  at  its  own 


JAMES   HENRY  LEIGH   HUNT  293 

expense,  does  but  look  to  increasing  the  general  stock  of 
happiness,  though  content,  if  it  could,  to  have  its  identity 
swallowed  up  in  that  splendid  contemplation.  We  are  far 
from  meaning  that  this  is  to  be  called  selfishness.  We  are  far, 
indeed,  from  thinking  so,  or  of  so  confounding  words.  But 
neither  is  it  to  be  called  pain,  when  most  unselfish,  if  disin- 
terestedness be  truly  understood.  The  pain  that  is  in  it  softens 
into  pleasure,  as  the  darker  hue  of  the  rainbow  melts  into  the 
brighter.  Yet  even  if  a  harsher  line  is  to  be  drawn  between 
the  pain  and  pleasure  of  the  most  unselfish  mind  (and  ill 
health,  for  instance,  may  draw  it),  we  should  not  quarrel  with 
it,  if  it  contributed  to  the  general  mass  of  comfort,  and  were 
of  a  nature  which  general  kindliness  could  not  avoid.  Made 
as  we  are,  there  are  certain  pains,  without  which  it  would  be 
difficult  to  conceive  certain  great  and  overbalancing  pleasures. 
We  may  conceive  it  possible  for  beings  to  be  made  entirely 
happy  ;  but  in  our  composition,  something  of  pain  seems  to 
be  a  necessary  ingredient,  in  order  that  the  materials  may  turn 
to  as  fine  account  as  possible ;  though  our  clay,  in  the  course 
of  ages  and  experience,  may  be  refined  more  and  more.  We 
may  get  rid  of  the  worst  earth,  though  not  of  earth  itself. 

Now  the  liability  to  the  loss  of  children  —  or  rather  what 
renders  us  sensible  of  it,  the  occasional  loss  itself  —  seems 
to  be  one  of  these  necessary  bitters  thrown  into  the  cup  of 
humanity.  We  do  not  mean  that  everyone  must  lose  one  of 
his  children,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  rest ;  or  that  every  in- 
dividual loss  afflicts  us  in  the  same  proportion.  W^e  allude  to 
the  deaths  of  infants  in  general.  These  might  be  as  few  as 
we  could  render  them.  But  if  none  at  all  ever  took  place,  we 
should  regard  every  little  child  as  a  man  or  woman  secured  ; 
and  it  will  easily  be  conceived,  what  a  world  of  endearing 
cares  and  hopes  this  security  would  endanger.  The  very  idea 
of  infancy  would  lose  its  continuity  with  us.  Girls  and  bo}s 
would  be  future  men  and  women,  not  present  children.  They 
would  have  attained  their  full  growth  in  our  imaginations,  and 
might  as  well  have  been  men  and  women  at  once.    On  the 


294  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

other  hand,  those  who  have  lost  an  infant  are  never,  as  it 
were,  without  an  infant  child.  They  are  the  only  persons 
who,  in  one  sense,  retain  it  always,  and  they  furnish  their 
neighbours  with  the  same  idea.^  The  other  children  grow  up 
to  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  suffer  all  the  changes  of 
mortality.  This  one  alone  is  rendered  an  immortal  child. 
Death  has  arrested  it  with  his  kindly  harshness,  and  blessed 
it  into  an  eternal  image  of  youth  and  innocence. 

Of  such  as  these  are  the  pleasantest  shapes  that  visit  our 
fancy  and  our  hopes.  They  are  the  ever-smiling  emblems  of 
joy  ;  the  prettiest  pages  that  wait  upon  imagination.  Lastly, 
"'  of  these  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Wherever  there  is 
a  province  of  that  benevolent  and  all-accessible  empire, 
whether  on  earth  or  elsewhere,  such  are  the  gentle  spirits 
that  must  inhabit  it.  To  such  simplicity,  or  the  resemblance 
of  it,  must  they  come.  Such  must  be  the  ready  confidence  of 
their  hearts,  and  creativeness  of  their  fancy.  And  so  ignorant 
must  they  be  of  the  "knowledge  of  good  and  evil,"  losing 
their  discernment  of  that  self-created  trouble,  by  enjoying  the 
garden  before  them,  and  not  being  ashamed  of  what  is  kindly 
and  innocent. 

SHAKING  HANDS 

Indicator^  July  12,  1820 

Among  the  first  things  which  we  remember  noticing  in  the 
manners  of  people  were  two  errors  in  the  custom  of  shaking 
hands.  Some,  we  observed,  grasped  everybody's  hand  alike, 
—  with  an  equal  fervour  of  grip.  You  would  have  thought 
that  Jenkins  was  the  best  friend  they  had  in  the  world  ;  but 
on  succeeding  to  the  squeeze,  though  a  slight  acquaintance, 
you  found  it  equally  flattering  to  yourself ;  and  on  the  appear- 
ance of  somebody  else  (whose  name,  it  turned  out,  the  operator 

1  "I  sighed,"  says  old  Captain  Bolton,  "when  I  envied  you  the  two  bonnie 
children,  but  I  sigh  not  now  to  call  either  the  monk  or  the  soldier  mine 
own."  —  Monastery,  vol.  iii.  p.  341. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT  295 

had  forgotten)  the  crush  was  no  less  comphmentary  :  - —  the 
face  was  as  earnest  and  beaming,  the  "glad  to  see  you"  as 
syllabical  and  sincere,  and  the  shake  as  close,  as  long,  and 
as  rejoicing,  as  if  the  semi-unknown  was  a  friend  come  home 
from  the  Desalts. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  would  be  a  gentleman  now  and 
then  as  coy  of  his  hand  as  if  he  were  a  prude,  or  had  a  whit- 
low. It  was  in  vain  that  3'our  pretensions  did  not  go  beyond 
the  "  civil  salute  "  of  the  ordinary  shake  ;  or  that  being  intro- 
duced to  him  in  a  friendly  manner  and  expected  to  shake 
hands  with  the  rest  of  the  company,  you  could  not  in  decency 
omit  his.  His  fingers,  half  coming  out,  and  half  retreating, 
seemed  to  think  that  you  were  going  to  do  them  a  mischief ; 
and  when  you  got  hold  of  them,  the  whole  shake  was  on 
your  side  :  the  other  hand  did  but  proudly  or  pensively  ac- 
quiesce—  there  was  no  knowing  which;  you  had  to  sustain 
it,  as  you  might  a  lady's  in  handing  her  to  a  seat ;  and  it 
was  an  equal  perplexity  to  know  how  to  shake  or  to  let  it  go. 
The  one  seemed  a  violence  done  to  the  patient ;  the  other 
an  awkward  responsibility  brought  upon  yourself.  You  did  not 
know,  all  the  evening,  whether  you  were  not  an  object  of  dis- 
like to  the  person  ;  till  on  the  party's  breaking  up,  you  saw 
him  behave  like  an  equally  ill-used  gentleman  to  all  who 
practised  the  same  unthinking'  civility. 

Both  these  errors,  we  think,  might  as  well  be  avoided  :  but 
of  the  two  we  must  say  we  prefer  the  former.  If  it  does 
not  look  so  much  like  particular  sincerity,  it  looks  more  like 
general  kindness  ;  and  if  those  two  virtues  are  to  be  separated 
(which  they  assuredly  need  not  be,  if  considered  without 
spleen)  the  world  can  better  afford  to  dispense  with  an  un- 
pleasant truth  than  a  gratuitous  humanity.  Besides,  it  is  more 
difficult  to  make  sure  of  the  one,  than  to  practise  the  other ; 
and  kindness  itself  is  the  best  of  all  truths.  As  long  as  we 
are  sure  of  that,  we  are  sure  of  something,  and  of  something 
pleasant.  It  is  alwa}-s  the  best  end,  if  not  in  every  instance 
the  most  logical  means. 


296  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

This  manual  shyness  is  sometimes  attributed  to  modesty, 
but  never,  we  suspect,  with  justice,  unless  it  be  that  sort  of 
modesty  whose  fear  of  committing  itself  is  grounded  in  pride. 
Want  of  address  is  a  better  reason,  but  this  particular  in- 
stance of  it  would  be  grounded  in  the  same  feeling.  It  always 
implies  a  habit  either  of  pride  or  mistrust.  We  have  met  with 
two  really  kind  men,  who  evinced  this  soreness  of  hand. 
Neither  of  them,  perhaps,  thought  himself  inferior  to  any- 
body about  him,  and  both  had  good  reason  to  think  higlily  of 
themselves  ;  but  both  had  been  sanguine  men  contradicted  in 
their  early  hopes.  There  was  a  plot  to  meet  the  hand  of  one 
of  them  with  a  fish-slice,  in  order  to  show  him  the  disadvan- 
tage to  which  he  put  his  friends  by  that  flat  mode  of  saluta- 
tion ;  but  the  conspirator  had  not  the  courage  to  do  it. 
Whether  he  heard  of  the  intention,  we  know  not ;  but  shortly 
afterwards  he  took  very  kindly  to  a  shake.  The  other  was 
the  only  man  of  a  warm  set  of  politicians  who  remained  true 
to  his  first  love  of  mankind.  He  was  impatient  at  the  change 
of  his  companions  and  at  the  folly  and  inattention  of  the  rest; 
but  though  his  manner  became  cold,  his  consistency  still  re- 
mained warm  ;  and  this  gave  him  a  right  to  be  as  strange 
as  he  pleased. 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  {1778-1830) 

ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS 
London  Magaci/ie,  February,  1821 

I  hate  to  read  new  books.  There  are  twenty  or  thirty 
vokimes  that  I  have  read  over  and  over  again,  and  these  are 
the  only  ones  that  I  have  any  desire  ever  to  read  at  ah.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  sit  down  to 
the  Talcs  of  My  Landloi'd,  but  now  that  author's  works  have 
made  a  considerable  addition  to  my  scanty  library.  I  am  told 
that  some  of  Lady  Morgan's  are  good,  and  have  been  recom- 
mended to  look  into  Anastasius ;  but  I  have  not  yet  ventured 
upon  that  task.  A  lady,  the  other  day,  could  not  refrain  from 
expressing  her  surprise  to  a  friend,  who  said  he  had  been 
reading  DclpJiiiic  :  —  she  asked,  —  If  it  had  not  been  pub- 
lished some  time  back  ?  Women  judge  of  books  as  they  do 
of  fashions  or  complexions,  which  are  admired  only  "  in  their 
newest  gloss."  That  is  not  my  way.  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  trouble  the  circulating  libraries  much,  or  pester  the  book- 
sellers for  mail-coach  copies  of  standard  periodical  publica- 
tions. I  cannot  say  that  I  am  greatly  addicted  to  black-letter, 
but  I  profess  myself  well  versed  in  the  marble  bindings  of 
Andrew  Millar,  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century  ;  nor  does 
my  taste  revolt  at  Thurlow's  State  Papers,  in  Russia  leather; 
or  an  ample  impression  of  Sir  William  Temple's  Essays,  with 
a  portrait  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  in  front.  I  do  not  think 
altogether  the  worse  of  a  book  for  having  survived  the  author 
a  generation  or  two.  I  have  more  confidence  in  the  dead  than 
the  living.  Contemporary  writers  may  generally  be  divided 
into  two  classes  —  one's  friends  or  one's  foes.  Of  the  first 
we  are  compelled  to  think  too  well,  and  of  the  last  we  are 

297 


298  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

disposed  to  think  too  ill,  to  receive  much  genuine  pleasure 
from  the  perusal,  or  to  judge  fairly  of  the  merits  of  either. 
One  candidate  for  literary  fame,  who  happens  to  be  of  our 
acquaintance,  writes  finely,  and  like  a  man  of  genius ;  but 
unfortunately  has  a  foolish  face,  which  spoils  a  delicate  pas- 
sage ;  another  inspires  us  with  the  highest  respect  for  his 
personal  talents  and  character,  but  does  not  quite  come  up  to 
our  expectations  in  print.  All  these  contradictions  and  "petty 
details  interrupt  the  calm  current  of  our  reflections.  If  you 
want  to  know  what  any  of  the  authors  were  who  lived  before 
our  time,  and  are  still  objects  of  anxious  inquiry,  you  have 
only  to  look  into  their  works.  But  the  dust  and  smoke  and 
noise  of  modern  literature  have  nothing  in  common  with  the 
pure,  silent  air  of  immortality. 

When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before  (the 
oftener  the  better),  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect.  The  satis- 
faction is  not  lessened  by  being  anticipated.  When  the  enter- 
tainment is  altogether  new,  I  sit  down  to  it  as  I  should  to  a 
strange  dish  —  turn  and  pick  out  a  bit  here  and  there,  and 
am  in  doubt  what  to  think  of  the  composition.  There  is  a 
want  of  confidence  and  security  to  second  appetite.  New- 
fangled books  are  also  like  made-dishes  in  this  respect,  that 
they  are  generally  little  else  than  hashes  and  rifacciiiicntos  of 
what  has  been  served  up  entire  and  in  a  more  natural  state  at 
other  times,  l^esides,  in  thus  turning  to  a  well-known  author, 
there  is  not  only  an  assurance  that  my  time  will  not  be  thrown 
away,  or  my  palate  nauseated  with  the  most  insipid  or  vilest 
trash,  but  I  shake  hands  with,  and  look  an  old,  tried,  and 
valued  friend  in  the  face,  compare  notes,  and  chat  the  hours 
away.  It  is  true,  we  form  dear  friendships  with  such  ideal 
guests  —  dearer,  alas!  and  more  lasting,  than  those  with  our 
most  intimate  acquaintance.  In  reading  a  book  which  is  an 
old  favourite  with  me  (say  the  first  novel  I  ever  read)  I  not 
only  have  the  pleasure  of  imagination  and  of  a  critical  relish 
of  the  work,  but  the  pleasures  of  memory  added  to  it.  It 
recalls  the  same  feelings  and  associations  which  I  had  in  first 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  299 

reading  it,  and  which  I  can  never  have  again  in  any  other 
way.  Standard  productions  of  this  kind  are  links  in  the  chain 
of  our  conscious  being.  They  bind  together  the  different 
scattered  divisions  of  our  personal  identity.  They  are  land- 
marks and  guides  in  our  journey  through  life.  They  are  pegs 
and  loops  on  which  we  can  hang  up,  or  from  which  we  can 
take  down,  at  pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination, 
the  relics  of  our  best  affections,  the  tokens  and  records  of 
our  happiest  hours.  They  are  "  for  thoughts  and  for  remem- 
brance!  "  They  are  like  Fortunatus's  Wishing  Cap — they 
give  us  the  best  riches  —  those  of  Fancy  ;  and  transport  us, 
not  over  half  the  globe,  but  (which  is  better)  over  half  our 
lives,  at  a  word's  notice ! 

My  father  Shandy  solaced  himself  with  15ruscambille.  Give 
me  for  this  purpose  a  volume  of  Peregrine  Pickle  or  Toin 
Jones.  Open  either  of  them  anywhere  —  at  the  Memoirs  of 
Lady  Vane,  or  the  adventures  at  the  masquerade  with  Lady 
Bellaston,  or  the  disputes  between  Thwackum  and  Square,  or 
the  escape  of  Molly  Seagrim,  or  the  incident  of  Sophia  and 
her  muff,  or  the  edifying  prolixity  of  her  aunt's  lecture  —  and 
there  I  find  the  same  delightful,  busy,  bustling  scene  as  ever, 
and  feel  myself  the  same  as  when  I  was  first  introduced  into 
the  midst  of  it.  Nay,  sometimes  the  sight  of  an  odd  volume 
of  these  good  old  English  authors  on  a  stall,  or  the  name  let- 
tered on  the  back  among  others  on  the  shelves  of  a  library, 
answers  the  purpose,  revives  the  whole  train  of  ideas,  and  sets 
"the  puppets  dallying."  Twenty  years  are  struck  off  the  list, 
and  I  am  a  child  again.  A  sage  philosopher,  who  was  not  a  very 
wise  man,  said  that  he  should  like  very  well  to  be  young 
again,  if  he  could  take  his  experience  along  with  him.  This 
ingenious  person  did  not  seem  to  be  aware,  by  the  gravity  of 
his  remark,  that  the  great  advantage  of  being  young  is  to  be 
without  this  weight  of  experience,  which  he  would  fain  place 
upon  the  shoulders  of  youth,  and  which  never  comes  too  late  with 
years.  Oh  !  what  a  privilege  to  be  able  to  let  this  hump,  like 
Christian's  burthen,  drop  from  off  one's  back,  and  transport 


300  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

oneself,  by  the  help  of  n  little  musty  duodecimo,  to  the  time 
when  "  ignorance  was  bliss,"  and  when  we  first  got  a  peep 
at  the  raree-show  of  the  world,  through  the  glass  of  fiction  — 
gazing  at  mankind,  as  we  do  at  wild  beasts  in  a  menagerie, 
through  the  bars  of  their  cages  —  or  at  curiosities  in  a  mu- 
seum, that  w^e  must  not  touch  !  For  myself,  not  only  are  the 
old  ideas  of  the  contents  of  the  work  brought  back  to  my  mind 
in  all  their  vividness,  but  the  old  associations  of  the  faces  and 
persons  of  those  I  then  knew,  as  they  were  in  their  lifetime 
—  the  place  where  I  sat  to  read  the  volume,  the  day  when  I 
got  it,  the  feeling  of  the  air,  the  fields,  the  sky  —  return,  and 
all  my  early  impressions  with  them.  This  is  better  to  me  — 
those  places,  those  times,  those  persons,  and  those  feelings 
that  come  across  me  as  I  retrace  the  story  and  devour  the 
page,  are  to  me  better  far  than  the  wet  sheets  of  the  last  new 
novel  from  the  I^allantyne  press,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Minerva 
press  in  Leadenhall  Street.  It  is  like  visiting  the  scenes  of 
early  youth.  I  think  of  the  time  "when  I  was  in  my  father's 
house,  and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter  and  honey"  —  when 
I  was  a  little,  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no  other  wish  or  care 
but  to  con  my  daily  task,  and  be  happy  !  Tom  Jones,  I  remem- 
ber, was  the  first  work  that  broke  the  spell.  It  came  down  in 
numbers  once  a  fortnight,  in  Cooke's  pocket-edition,  embel- 
lished with  cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read  only  in  school-books, 
and  a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history  (with  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's  Roiiiaucc  of  the  Forest)  :  but  this  had  a  different 
relish  with  it — "sweet  in  the  mouth,"  though  not  "bitter  in 
the  belly."  It  smacked  of  the  world  I  lived  in,  and  in  which 
I  was  to  live  —  and  showed  me  groups,  "gay  creatures"  not 
"  of  the  element,"  but  of  the  earth  ;  not  "  living  in  the  clouds," 
but  travelling  the  same  road  that  I  did  ;  —  some  that  had 
passed  on  before  me,  and  others  that  might  soon  overtake  me. 
My  heart  had  palpitated  at  the  thoughts  of  a  boarding-school 
ball,  or  gala-day  at  Midsummer  or  Christmas  :  but  the  world 
I  had  found  out  in  Cooke's  edition  of  the  Ihitish  Novelists 
was  to  me  a  dance  through  life,  a  perpetual   gala-day.    The 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  301 

sixpenny  numbers  of  this  work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a  story, 
where  Tom  Jones  discovers  Square  behind  the  blanket ;  or 
where  Parson  Adams,  in  the  inextricable  confusion  of  events, 
very  undesignedly  gets  to  bed  to  Mrs.  Slip-slop.  Let  me  cau- 
tion the  reader  against  this  impression  of  Joseph  Andreivs ; 
for  there  is  a  picture  of  Fanny  in  it  which  he  should  not  set 
his  heart  on,  lest  he  should  never  meet  with  anything  like  it ; 
or  if  he  should,  it  would,  perhaps,  be  better  for  him  that  he 

had  not.     It  was  just  like !    With  what  eagerness  I 

used  to  look  forward  to  the  next  number,  and  open  the  prints  ! 
Ah !  never  again  shall  I  feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with 
which  I  gazed  at  the  figures,  and  anticipated  the  story  and 
adventures  of  Major  Bath  and  Commodore  Trunnion,  of  Trim 
and  my  Uncle  Toby,  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  and  Dapple, 
of  Gil  Bias  and  Dame  Lorenza  Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the 
fair  Lucretia,  whose  lips  open  and  shut  like  buds  of  roses.  To 
what  nameless  ideas  did  they  give  rise  —  with  what  airy  de- 
lights I  filled  up  the  outlines,  as  I  hung  in  silence  over  the 
page  !  Let  me  still  recall  them,  that  they  may  breathe  fresh 
life  into  me,  and  that  I  may  live  that  birthday  of  thought  and 
romantic  pleasure  over  again !  Talk  of  the  ideal !  This  is 
the  only  true  ideal  —  the  heavenly  tints  of  Fancy  reflected  in 
the  bubbles  that  float  upon  the  spring-tide  of  human  life. 

O  Memory  !  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  e\erlasting  life  ! 

The  paradox  with  which  I  set  out  is,  I  hope,  less  startling 
than  it  was  ;  the  reader  will,  by  this  time,  have  been  let  into 
my  secret.  Much  about  the  same  time,  or  I  believe  rather 
earlier,  I  took  a  particular  satisfaction  in  reading  Chubb's 
Tracts,  and  I  often  think  I  will  get  them  again  to  wade 
through.  There  is  a  high  gusto  of  polemical  divinity  in  them  ; 
and  you  fancy  that  you  hear  a  club  of  shoemakers  at  Salisbuiy 
debating  a  disputable  text  from  one  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  in 
a  workmanlike   style,  with  equal  shrewdness  and  pertinacity. 


302  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

I  cannot  say  much  for  my  metaphysical  studies,  into  which  I 
launched  shortly  after  with  great  ardour,  so  as  to  make  a  toil 
of  a  pleasure.  I  was  presently  entangled  in  the  briars  and 
thorns  of  subtle  distinctions  —  of  "fate,  free-will,  fore-knowledge 
absolute,"  though  I  cannot  add  that  "  in  their  wandering  mazes 
I  found  no  end  "  ;  for  I  did  arrive  at  some  very  satisfactory 
and  potent  conclusions  ;  nor  will  I  go  so  far,  however  ungrate- 
ful the  subject  might  seem,  as  to  exclaim  with  Marlowe's 
Faustus  —  "Would  I  had  never  seen  Wittenberg,  never  read 
book  "  —  that  is,  never  studied  such  authors  as  Hartley,  Hume, 
Berkeley,  etc.  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding 
is,  however,  a  work  from  which  I  never  derived  either  pleasure 
or  profit ;  and  Llobbes,  dry  and  powerful  as  he  is,  I  did  not 
read  till  long  afterwards.  I  read  a  few  poets,  which  did  not 
much  hit  my  taste  —  for  I  would  have  the  reader  understand, 
I  am  deficient  in  the  faculty  of  imagination  ;  but  I  fell  early 
upon  French  romances  and  philosophy,  and  devoured  them 
tooth -and-nail.  Many  a  dainty  repast  have  I  made  of  the  Netv 
Eloise ;  —  the  description  of  the  kiss  ;  the  excursion  on  the 
water ;  the  letter  of  St.  Preux,  recalling  the  time  of  their  first 
loves  ;  and  the  account  of  Julia's  death  ;  these  I  read  over  and 
over  again  with  unspeakable  delight  and  wonder.  Some  years 
after,  when  I  met  with  this  work  again,  I  found  I  had  lost 
nearly  my  whole  relish  for  it  (except  some  few  parts),  and  was, 
I  remember,  very  much  mortified  with  the  change  in  my  taste, 
which  I  sought  to  attribute  to  the  smallness  and  gilt  edges  of 
the  edition  I  had  bought,  and  its  being  perfumed  with  rose- 
leaves.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  gravity,  the  solemnity  with 
which  I  carried  home  and  read  the  Dedication  to  the  Social 
Contract,  with  some  other  pieces  of  the  same  author,  which  I 
had  picked  up  at  a  stall  in  a  coarse  leathern  cover.  Of  the 
Confessions  I  have  spoken  elsewhere,  and  may  repeat  what  I 
have  said  —  "  Sweet  is  the  dew  of  their  memory,  and  pleasant 
the  balm  of  their  recollection  !  "  Their  beauties  are  not  "  scat- 
tered like  stray-gifts  o'er  the  earth,"  but  sown  thick  on  the 
page,  rich  and  rare.    I  wish  I  had  never  read  the  Eniilius,  or 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  303 

read  it  with  implicit  faith.  I  had  no  occasion  to  pamper  my 
natural  aversion  to  affectation  or  pretence,  by  romantic  and 
artificial  means.  I  had  better  have  formed  myself  on  the 
model  of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.  There  is  a  class  of  persons 
v^'hose  virtues  and  most  shining  qualities  sink  in,  and  are  con- 
cealed by,  an  absorbent  ground  of  modesty  and  reserve  ;  and 
such  a  one  I  do,  without  vanity,  profess  myself. ^  Now  these 
are  the  very  persons  who  arc  likely  to  attach  themselves  to  the 
character  of  Emilius,  and  of  whom  it  is  sure  to  be  the  bane. 
This  duU,^  phlegmatic,  retiring  humour  is  not  in  a  fair  way  to 
be  corrected,  but  confirmed  and  rendered  desperate,  by  being 
in  that  work  held  up  as  an  object  of  imitation,  as  an  example 
of  simplicity  and  magnanimity  —  by  coming  upon  us  with  all 
the  recommendations  of  novelty,  surprise,  and  superiority  to 
the  prejudices  of  the  world  —  by  being  stuck  upon  a  pedestal, 
made  amiable,  dazzling,  a  Icnrrc  de  dupe !  The  reliance  on 
solid  worth  which  it  inculcates,  the  preference  of  sober  truth 
to  gaudy  tinsel,  hangs  like  a  mill-stone  round  the  neck  of  the 
imagination — "a  load  to  sink  a  navy"  —  impedes  our  prog- 
ress, and  blocks  up  every  prospect  in  life.  A  man,  to  get  on, 
to  be  successful,  conspicuous,  applauded,  should  not  retire  upon 
the  centre  of  his  conscious  resources,  but  be  always  at  the 
circumference  of  appearances.  He  must  envelop  himself  in  a 
halo  of  mystery  —  he  must  ride  in  an  equipage  of  opinion — - 
he  must  walk  with  a  train  of  self-conceit  following  him  —  he 
must  not  strip  himself  to  a  buff-jerkin,  to  the  doublet  and  hose 
of  his  real  merits,  but  must  surround  himself  with  a  cortege  of 
prejudices,  like  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  —  he  must  seem  any- 
thing but  what  he  is,  and  then  he  may  pass  for  anything  he 
pleases.  The  world  love  to  be  amused  by  hollow  professions, 
to  be  deceived  by  flattering  appearances,  to  live  in  a  state  of 

1  Nearly  the  same  sentiment  was  wittily  and  happily  expressed  by  a 
friend,  who  had  some  lottery  puffs,  which  he  had  been  employed  to  write, 
returned  on  his  hands  for  their  too  great  severity  of  thought  and  classical 
terseness  of  style,  and  who  observed  on  that  occasion  that  "  Modest  merit 
never  can  succeed  !  " 


304  THE  ExNGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

hallucination  ;  and  can  forgive  everything  but  the  plain,  down- 
right, simple,  honest  truth  —  such  as  we  see  it  chalked  out  in 
the  character  of  Emilius.  To  return  from  this  digression,  which 
is  a  little  out  of  place  here. 

Books  have  in  a  great  measure  lost  their  power  over  me  ; 
nor  can  I  revive  the  same  interest  in  them  as  formerly.  I 
perceive  when  a  thing  is  good,  rather  than  feel  it.    It  is  true, 

Martian  Colon n a  is  a  dainty  book ; 

and  the  reading  of  Mr.  Keats's  live  of  St.  Aij:;iics  lately  made 
me  regret  that  I  was  not  young  again.  The  beautiful  and 
tender  images  there  conjured  up,  "come  like  shadows  —  so 
depart."  The  "tiger-moth's  wings,"  which  he  has  spread  over 
his  rich  poetic  blazonry,  just  flit  across  my  fancy  ;  the  gorgeous 
twilight  window  which  he  has  painted  over  again  in  his  verse, 
to  me  "blushes"  almost  in  vain  "with  blood  of  queens  and 
kings."  I  know  how  I  should  have  felt  at  one  time  in  read- 
ing such  passages  ;  and  that  is  all.  The  sharp  luscious  flavour, 
the  fine  aroma  is  fled,  and  nothing  but  the  stalk,  the  bran,  the 
husk  of  literature  is  left.  If  any  one  were  to  ask  me  what  I 
read  now,  I  might  answer  with  my  Lord  Hamlet  in  the  ]:)lay 
— -"Words,  words,  words."  —  "What  is  the  matter.?"  — 
"  Nothini^\''  —  They  have  scarce  a  meaning,^  But  it  was 
not  always  so.  There  was  a  time  when  to  my  thinking,  every 
word  was  a  flower  or  a  pearl,  like  those  which  dropped  from 
the  mouth  of  the  little  peasant-girl  in  the  Fairy  tale,  or  like 
those  that  fall  from  the  great  preacher  in  the  Caledonian 
Chapel !  I  drank  of  the  stream  of  knowledge  that  tempted, 
but  did  not  mock  my  lips,  as  of  the  river  of  life,  freely.  How 
eagerly  I  slaked  my  thirst  of  German  sentiment,  "as  the  hart 
that  panteth  for  the  water-springs";  how  T  bathed  and  rev- 
elled, and  added  my  floods  of  tears  to  Goethe's  Sorroivs  of 
Wertcr,  and  to  Schiller's  Robbcis  — 

Giving  my  slock  of  more  to  that  whicli  had  too  much  ! 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  305 

I  read  and  assented  with  all  my  soul  to  Coleridge's  fine 
Sonnet,  beginning  — 

Schiller !  that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent, 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tow'r  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry ! 

I  believe  I  may  date  my  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  poetry 
from  the  commencement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  Authors 
of  the  Lyrical  Ballads ;  at  least,  my  discrimination  of  the 
higher  sorts  —  not  my  predilection  for  such  writers  as  Gold- 
smith or  Pope :  nor  do  I  imagine  they  will  say  I  got  my 
liking  for  the  Novelists,  or  the  comic  writers  —  for  the  char- 
acters of  Valentine,  TatUe,  or  Miss  Prue  —  from  them.  If 
so,  I  must  have  got  from  them  what  they  never  had  them- 
selves. In  points  where  poetic  diction  and  conception  are 
concerned,  I  may  be  at  a  loss,  and  liable  to  be  imposed  upon : 
but  in  forming  an  estimate  of  passages  relating  to  common 
life  and  manners,  I  cannot  think  I  am  a  plagiarist  from  any 
man.  I  there  "  know-  my  cue  without  a  prompter."  I  may 
say  of  such  studies,  Intns  ct  in  cute.  I  am  just  able  to  ad- 
mire those  literal  touches  of  observation  and  description 
which  persons  of  loftier  pretensions  overlook  and  despise. 
I  think  I  comprehend  something  of  the  characteristic  part 
of  Shakespeare ;  and  in  him  indeed  all  is  characteristic,  even 
the  nonsense  and  poetiy.  I  believe  it  was  the  celebrated 
Sir  Humphry  Davy  who  used  to  say  that  Shakespeare  was 
rather  a  metaphysician  than  a  poet.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not 
ill  said.  I  wish  that  I  had  sooner  known  the  dramatic  writers 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare ;  for  in  looking  them  over 
about  a  year  ago,  I  almost  revived  my  old  passion  for  read- 
ing, and  my  old  delight  in  books,  though  they  were  very 
nearly  new^  to  me.  The  Periodical  Essayists  I  read  long  ago. 
The  Spectator  I  liked  extremely :  but  the  Tatler  took  my 
fancy  most.     I  read  the  others  soon  after,  the  Rambler,  the 


306  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Adventurer,  the  Wtiifid,  the  Coiuioisseur.  I  was  not  sorry  to 
get  to  the  end  of  them,  and  have  no  desire  to  go  regularly 
through  them  again.  I  consider  myself  a  thorough  adept  in 
Richardson.  I  like  the  longest  of  his  novels  best,  and  think 
no  part  of  them  tedious  ;  nor  should  I  ask  to  have  anything 
better  to  do  than  to  read  them  from  beginning  to  end,  to 
take  them  up  when  I  chose,  and  lay  them  down  when  I  was 
tired,  in  some  old  family  mansion  in  the  country,  till  every 
word  and  syllable  relating  to  the  bright  Clarissa,  the  divine 
Clementina,  the  beautiful  Pamela,  '"  with  every  trick  and  line 
of  their  sweet  favour,"  were  once  more  "  graven  in  my  heart's 
table."  ^  I  have  a  sneaking  kindness  for  Mackenzie's  y////^? 
de  Roubigne  —  iox  the  deserted  mansion,  and  straggling  gilli- 
fiowers  on  the  mouldering  garden-wall  ;  and  still  more  for  his 
Man  of  Feeling ;  not  that  it  is  better,  nor  so  good  ;  but  at 
the  time  I  read  it,  I  sometimes  thought  of  the  heroine.  Miss 

Walton,  and  of  Miss  together,  and  "  that  ligament,  fine 

as  it  was,  was  never  broken!"  —  One  of  the  poets  that  I  have 
always  read  with  most  pleasure,  and  can  wander  about  in  for 
ever  with  a  sort  of  voluptuous  indolence,  is  Spenser ;  and  I 
like  Chaucer  even  better.  The  only  writer  among  the  Italians 
I  can  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of  is  Boccaccio,  and  of  him  I 
cannot  express  half  my  admiration.  His  story  of  the  Hawk  I 
could  read  and  think  of  from  day  to  day,  just  as  I  would 
look  at  a  picture  of  Titian's  ! 

I  remember,  as  long  ago  as  the  year  1798,  going  to  a 
neighbouring  town  (Shrewsbury,  where  Farquhar  has  laid  the 
plot  of  his  Reerniting  Offieer)  and   bringing  home  with   me, 

^  During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  a  young  English  officer,  of  the  name 
of  Lovelace,  was  presented  at  Buonaparte's  levee.  Instead  of  the  usual 
question,  "  Where  have  you  served,  Sir  ? "  the  First  Consul  immediately  ad- 
dressed him,  "  I  perceive  your  name,  Sir,  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  hero  of 
Richardson's  Romance ! "  Here  was  a  Consul.  The  young  man's  uncle, 
who  was  called  Lovelace,  told  me  this  anecdote  while  we  were  stopping 
together  at  Calais.  I  had  also  been  thinking  that  his  was  the  same  name 
as  that  of  the  hero  of  Richardson's  Romance.  This  is  one  of  my  reasons 
for  liking  ]5u(maparte. 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  307 

"at  one  proud  swoop,"  a  copy  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and 
another  of  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  — 
both  which  I  have  still ;  and  I  still  recollect,  when  I  see  the 
covers,  the  pleasure  with  which  I  dipped  into  them  as  I 
returned  with  my  double  prize.  I  was  set  up  for  one  while. 
That  time  is  past  "  with  all  its  giddy  raptures  "  :  but  I  am 
still  anxious  to  preserve  its  memory,  "  embalmed  with  odours." 
—  With  respect  to  the  first  of  these  works,  I  would  be  pei"- 
mitted  to  remark  here  in  passing  that  it  is  a  sufficient  answer 
to  the  German  criticism  which  has  since  been  started  against 
the  character  of  Satan  (viz.,  that  it  is  not  one  of  disgusting 
deformity,  or  pure,  defecated  malice),  to  say  that  Milton  has 
there  drawn,  not  the  abstract  principle  of  evil,  not  a  devil  in- 
carnate, but  a  fallen  angel.  This  is  the  Scriptural  account, 
and  the  poet  has  followed  it.  We  may  safely  retain  such 
passages  as  that  well-known  one  — 

His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness ;   nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd  ;  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd  — 

for  the  theory,  which  is  opposed  to  them,  "  falls  flat  upon  the 
grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  worshippers."  Let  us  hear  no 
more,  then,  of  this  monkish  cant,  and  bigoted  outcry  for  the 
restoration  of  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  devil !  - —  Again,  as  to 
the  other  work,  Burke's  Reflections,  I  took  a  particular  pride 
and  pleasure  in  it,  and  read  it  to  myself  and  others  for  months 
afterwards.  I  had  reason  for  my  prejudice  in  favour  of  this 
author.  To  understand  an  adversary  is  some  praise  :  to  admire 
him  is  more.  I  thought  I  did  both  :  I  knew  I  did  one.  From 
the  first  time  I  ever  cast  my  eyes  on  anything  of  Burke's 
(which  was  an  extract  from  his  "  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  "  in 
a  three-times-a-week  paper,  the  .S7.  James  s  Chronicle,  in  1 796), 
I  said  to  myself,  "  This  is  true  eloquence :  this  is  a  man 
pouring  out  his  mind  on  paper."  All  other  style  seemed  to 
me  pedantic  and  impertinent.  Dr.  Johnson's  was  walking  on 
stilts  ;   and   even  Junius's   (who  was  at  that  time  a  favourite 


3o8  ■  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

with  me),  with  all  liis  terseness,  shrunk  up  into  little  anti- 
thetic points  and  well-trimmed  sentences.  But  Burke's  style 
was  forked  and  playful  as  the  lightning,  crested  hke  the  ser- 
pent. He  delivered  plain  things  on  a  plain  ground  ;  but  when 
he  rose,  there  was  no  end  of  his  flights  and  circumgyrations 
—  and  in  this  very  Letter,  "he,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cot, 
fluttered  Jiis  Volscians,"  (the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl 
of  Lauderdale)  "  in  Corioli."  I  did  not  care  for  his  doctrines. 
I  was  then,  and  am  still,  proof  against  their  contagion  ;  but  I 
admired  the  author,  and  was  considered  as  not  a  very  staunch 
partisan  of  the  opposite  side,  though  I  thought  myself  that  an 
abstract  proposition  was  one  thing  —  a  masterly  transition,  a 
brilliant  metaphor,  another.  I  conceived,  too,  that  he  might 
be  wrong  in  his  main  argument,  and  yet  deliver  fifty  truths  in 
arriving  at  a  false  conclusion.  I  remember  Coleridge  assuring 
me,  as  a  poetical  and  political  set-off  to  my  sceptical  admira- 
tion, that  Wordsworth  had  written  an  Essay  on  Marriage, 
which,  for  manly  thought  and  nervous  expression,  he  deemed 
incomparably  superior.  As  I  had  not,  at  that  time,  seen  any 
specimens  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  prose  style,  I  could  not  ex- 
press my  doubts  on  the  subject.  If  there  are  greater  prose- 
writers  than  Burke,  they  either  lie  out  of  my  course  of  study, 
or  are  beyond  my  sphere  of  comprehension.  I  am  too  old  to 
be  a  convert  to  a  new  mythology  of  genius.  The  niches  are 
occupied,  the  tables  are  full.  If  such  is  still  my  admiration  of 
this  man's  misapplied  powers,  what  must  it  have  been  at  a 
time  when  I  myself  was  in  vain  trying,  year  after  year,  to 
write  a  single  essay,  nay,  a  single  page  or  sentence  ;  when  I 
regarded  the  wonders  of  his  pen  with  the  longing  eyes  of  one 
who  was  dumb  and  a  changeling ;  and  when  to  be  able  to  con- 
vey the  slightest  conception  of  my  meaning  to  others  in  words, 
was  the  height  of  an  almost  hopeless  ambition  !  But  I  never 
measured  others'  excellences  by  my  own  defects :  though  a 
sense  of  my  own  incapacity,  and  of  the  steep,  impassable 
ascent  from  me  to  them,  made  me  regard  them  with  greater 
awe  and  fondness.    I  have  thus  run  through  most  of  my  early 


WILLIAM   HAZLl'lT  309 

studies  and  favourite  authors,  some  of  whom  I  have  since 
criticised  more  at  large.  Whether  those  observations  will  sur- 
vive me,  I  neither  know  nor  do  I  much  care :  but  to  the 
works  themselves,  "worthy  of  all  acceptation,"  and  to  the 
feelings  they  liave  always  excited  in  me  since  I  could  dis- 
tinguish a  meaning  in  language,  nothing  shall  ever  prevent 
me  from  looking  back  with  gratitude  and  triumph.  To  have 
lived  in  the  cultivation  of  an  intimacy  with  such  works,  and 
to  have  familiarly  relished  such  names,  is  not  to  have  lived 
quite  in  vain. 

There  are  other  authors  whom  I  have  never  read,  and 
yet  whom  I  have  frequently  had  a  great  desire  to  read,  from 
some  circumstance  relating  to  them.  Among  these  is  Lord 
Clarendon's  History  of  the  Grand  Rebellion,  after  which  I 
have  a  hankering,  from  hearing  it  spoken  of  by  good  judges 
—  from  my  interest  in  the  events,  and  knowledge  of  the 
characters  from  other  sources,  and  from  having  seen  fine  por- 
traits of  most  of  them.  I  like  to  read  a  well-penned  character, 
and  Clarendon  is  said  to  have  been  a  master  in  his  way. 
I  should  like  to  read  Froissart's  CJironicles,  Holinshed  and 
Stowe,  and  Fuller's  Wortliies.  I  intend,  whenever  I  can,  to 
read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  all  through.  There  are  fifty-two 
of  their  plays,  and  I  have  only  read  a  dozen  or  fourteen  of 
them.  A  Wife  for  a  Month  and  TJiicrry  and  Thcodoret  are, 
I  am  told,  delicious,  and  I  can  believe  it.  I  should  like  to 
read  the  speeches  in  Thucydides,  and  Guicciardini's  History 
of  Florence,  and  Don  Quixote  in  the  original.  I  have  often 
thought  of  reading  the  Loves  of  Persilcs  and  Sigisnutnda, 
and  the  Galatea  of  the  same  author.  But  I  somehow  reserve 
them  like  "another  Yarrow."  I  should  also  like  to  read  the 
last  new  novel  (if  I  could  be  sure  it  was  so)  of  the  author 
of  Waverley :  —  no  one  would  be  more  glad  than  I  to  find 
it  the  best ! 


3IO  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY 

New  Mont  Illy  Mas^azine,  1822 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  world  is  going  a  jour- 
ney ;  but  I  like  to  go  by  myself.  I  can  enjoy  society  in  a 
room  ;  but  out  of  doors,  nature  is  company  enough  for  me. 
I  am  then  never  less  alone  then  when  alone. 

The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book. 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and  talking  at  the  same 
time.  When  I  am  in  the  country,  I  wish  to  vegetate  like  the 
country.  I  am  not  for  criticising  hedge-rows  and  black  cattle. 
I  go  out  of  town  in  order  to  forget  the  town  and  all  that  is 
in  it.  There  are  those  who  for  this  purpose  go  to  watering- 
places,  and  carry  the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like  more  elbow- 
room,  and  fewer  incumbrances.  I  like  solitude,  when  I  give 
myself  up  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  solitude  ;  nor  do  I  ask  for 

a  friend  in  my  retreat, 

Whom  I  may  whisper,  soHtude  is  sweet. 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  liberty,  perfect  liberty,  to  think,  feel, 
do,  just  as  one  pleases.  We  go  a  journey  chiefly  to  be  free 
of  all  impediments  and  of  all  inconveniences  ;  to  leave  our- 
selves behind,  much  more  to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is  because 
I  want  a  little  breathing-space  to  muse  on  indifferent  matters, 
where  Contemplation 

May  pkime  her  feathers  and  let  grow  her  wings. 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 

Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impair'd, 

that  I  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  a  while,  without  feeling 
at  a  loss  the  moment  I  am  left  by  myself.  Instead  of  a  friend 
in  a  post-chaise  or  in  a  Tilbury,  to  exchange  good  things  with, 
and  vary  the  same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once  let  me 
have  a  truce  with  impertinence.  Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky 
over  my  head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding 
road  before  me,   and  a  three  hours'  march   to  dinner  —  and 


WILLIAM   IIAZLITT  31 1 

then  to  thinking !  It  is  hard  if  I  cannot  start  some  game 
on  these  lone  heaths.  I  laugh,  I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy. 
From  the  point  of  yonder  rolling  cloud,  I  plunge  into  my 
past  being,  and  revel  there,  as  the  sun-burnt  Indian  plunges 
headlong  into  the  wave  that  wafts  him  to  his  native  shore. 
Then  long-forgotten  things,  like  "  sunken  wrack  and  sumless 
treasuries,"  burst  upon  my  eager  sight,  and  I  begin  to  feel, 
think,  and  be  myself  again.  Instead  of  an  awkward  silence, 
broken  by  attempts  at  wit  or  dull  commonplaces,  mine  is  that 
undisturbed  silence  of  the  heart  which  alone  is  perfect  elo- 
quence. No  one  likes  puns,  alliterations,  antitheses,  argument, 
and  analysis  better  than  I  do  ;  but  I  sometimes  had  rather  be 
without  them.  "  Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose  !  "  I  have 
just  now  other  business  in  hand,  which  would  seem  idle  to  you, 
but  is  with  me  "  very  stuff  o'  the  conscience."  Is  not  this  wild 
rose  sweet  without  a  comment  ?  Does  not  this  daisy  leap  to 
my  heart  set  in  its  coat  of  emerald  ?  Yet  if  I  were  to  explain 
to  you  the  circumstance  that  has  so  endeared  it  to  me,  you 
would  only  smile.  Had  I  not  better  then  keep  it  to  myself, 
and  let  it  serve  me  to  brood  over,  from  here  to  yonder  craggy 
point,  and  from  thence  onward  to  the  far-distant  horizon  ?  I 
should  be  but  bad  company  all  that  way,  and  therefore  prefer 
being  alone.  I  ha\'e  heard  it  said  that  you  ma}-,  when  the 
moody  fit  comes  on,  walk  or  ride  on  by  yourself,  and  indulge 
your  reveries.  But  this  looks  like  a  breach  of  manners,  a  neg- 
lect of  others,  and  you  are  thinking  all  the  time  that  you 
ought  to  rejoin  your  party.  "'  Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellow- 
ship," say  I.  I  like  to  be  either  entirely  to  myself,  or  entirely 
at  the  disposal  of  others  ;  to  talk  or  be  silent,  to  walk  or  sit 
still,  to  be  sociable  or  solitary.  I  was  pleased  with  an  observa- 
tion of  Mr.  Cobbett's,  that  "  he  thought  it  a  bad  French  cus- 
tom to  drink  our  wine  with  our  meals,  and  that  an  Englishman 
ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a  time."  So  I  cannot  talk  and 
think,  or  indulge  in  melancholy  musing  and  lively  conversation 
by  fits  and  starts.  "Let  me  have  a  companion  of  my  way," 
says  Sterne,  "  were  it  but  to  remark  how  the  shadows  lengthen 


312  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

as  the  sun  declines."  It  is  beautifully  said  ;  but  in  my  opinion, 
this  continual  comparing  of  notes  interferes  with  the  involun- 
tary impression  of  things  upon  the  mind,  and  hurts  the  senti- 
ment. If  you  only  hint  what  you  feel  in  a  kind  of  dumb  show, 
it  is  insipid  :  if  you  have  to  explain  it,  it  is  making  a  toil  of 
a  pleasure.  You  cannot  read  the  book  of  nature  without  being 
perpetually  put  to  the  trouble  of  translating  it  for  the  benefit 
of  others.  I  am  for  the  synthetical  method  on  a  journey  in 
preference  to  the  analytical.  I  am  content  to  lay  in  a  stock 
of  ideas  then,  and  to  examine  and  anatomise  them  afterwards. 
I  want  to  see  my  vague  notions  float  like  the  down  of  the 
thistle  before  the  breeze,  and  not  to  have  them  entangled  in 
the  briars  and  thorns  of  controversy.  For  once,  I  like  to  have 
it  all  my  own  way ;  and  this  is  impossible  unless  you  are  alone, 
or  in  such  company  as  I  do  not  covet.  I  have  no  objection 
to  argue  a  point  with  any  one  for  twenty  miles  of  measured 
road,  but  not  for  pleasure.  If  you  remark  the  scent  of  a  bean- 
field  crossing  the  road,  perhaps  your  fellow-traveller  has  no 
smell.  If  you  point  to  a  distant  object,  perhaps  he  is  short- 
sighted, and  has  to  take  out  his  glass  to  look  at  it.  There  is 
a  feeling  in  the  air,  a  tone  in  the  colour  of  a  cloud  which  hits 
your  fancy,  but  the  effect  of  which  you  are  unable  to  account 
for.  There  is  then  no  sympathy,  but  an  uneasy  craving  after 
it,  and  a  dissatisfaction  which  pursues  you  on  the  way,  and  in 
the  end  probably  produces  ill-humour.  Now  I  never  quarrel 
with  myself,  and  take  all  my  own  conclusions  for  granted  till 
I  find  it  necessary  to  defend  them  against  objections.  It  is 
not  merely  that  you  may  not  be  of  accord  on  the  objects  and 
circumstances  that  present  themselves  before  you  —  these  may 
recall  a  number  of  objects,  and  lead  to  associations  too  delicate 
and  refined  to  be  possibly  communicated  to  others.  Yet  these 
I  love  to  cherish,  and  sometimes  still  fondly  clutch  them,  when 
I  can  escape  from  the  throng  to  do  so.  To  give  way  to  our 
feelings  before  company  seems  extravagance  or  affectation  ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  have  to  unravel  this  mystery  of  our 
being  at  every  turn,  and  to  make  others  take  an  equal  interest 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  313 

in  it  (otherwise  the  end  is  not  answered)  is  a  task  to  which 
few  are  competent.  We  must  "give  it  an  understanding,  but 
no  tongue."  My  old  friend  Coleridge,  however,  could  do  both. 
He  could  go  on  in  the  most  delightful  explanatory  way  over 
hill  and  dale  a  summer's  day,  and  convert  a  landscape  into  a 
didactic  poem  or  a  Pindaric  ode.  "He  talked  far  above  sing- 
ing." If  I  could  so  clothe  my  ideas  in  sounding  and  flowing 
words,  I  might  perhaps  wish  to  have  some  one  with  me  to 
admire  the  swelling  theme ;  or  I  could  be  more  content,  were 
it  possible  for  me  still  to  hear  his  echoing  voice  in  the  woods 
of  All-Foxden.  They  had  "that  fine  madness  in  them  which 
our  first  poets  had";  and  if  they  could  have  been  caught  by 
some  rare   instrument,   would   have   breathed   such   strains   as 

the  following :  — 

Here  be  woods  as  green 

As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 

As  when  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 

Face  of  the  curled  streams,  with  flow'rs  as  many 

As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any ; 

Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells ; 

Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbines,  caves  and  dells ; 

Choose  where  thou  wilt,  while  I  sit  by  and  sing, 

Or  gather  rushes,  to  make  many  a  ring 

For  thy  long  fingers  ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love ; 

How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 

First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 

She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 

How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep. 

His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 

Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 

Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 

To  kiss  her  sweetest.^ 

Had  I  words  and  images  at  command  like  these,  I  would 
attempt  to  wake  the  thoughts  that  lie  slumbering  on  golden 
ridges  in  the  evening  clouds  :  but  at  the  sight  of  nature  my 
fancy,  poor  as  it  is,  droops  and  closes  up  its  leaves,  like  flowers 
at  sunset.  I  can  make  nothing  out  on  the  spot :  —  I  must  have 
time  to  collect  myself.  — 

^  Fletcher's  Faitk/ul  SJiepherdess, 


314  'i'HE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR   KSSAV 

In  general,  a  good  thing  spoils  out-of-door  prospects :  it 
should  be  reserved  for  Table-talk.  Lamb  is  for  this  reason,  I 
take  it,  the  worst  company  in  the  world  out  of  doors  ;  because 
he  is  the  best  within.  I  grant  there  is  one  subject  on  which  it 
is  pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey  ;  and  that  is,  what  one  shall 
have  for  supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night.  The  open 
air  improves  this  sort  of  conversation  or  friendly  altercation, 
by  setting  a  keener  edge  on  appetite.  Every  mile  of  the  road 
heightens  the  flavour  of  the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it. 
How  fine  it  is  to  enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted, 
just  at  the  approach  of  nightfall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling 
village,  with  the  lights  streaming  through  the  surrounding 
gloom  ;  and  then,  after  incjuiring  for  the  best  entertainment 
that  the  place  affords,  to  "  take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn  !  " 
These  eventful  moments  in  our  lives'  history  are  too  precious, 
too  full  of  solid,  heartfelt  happiness  to  be  frittered  and  drib- 
bled away  in  imperfect  sympathy.  I  would  have  them  all  to 
myself,  and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop  :  they  will  do  to  talk 
of  or  to  write  about  afterwards.  What  a  delicate  speculation 
it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets  of  tea, 

The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate, 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the  brain,  to  sit  considering 
what  we  shall  have  for  supper  —  eggs  and  a  rasher,  a  rabbit 
smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excellent  veal  cutlet !  Sancho  in 
such  a  situation  once  fixed  upon  cow-heel ;  and  his  choice, 
though  he  could  not  help  it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.  Then 
in  the  intervals  of  pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contempla- 
tion, to  catch  the  preparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen. 
Procul,  O  procnl  este  prof  aid !  These  hours  are  sacred  to 
silence  and  to  musing,  to  be  treasured  up  in  the  memory,  and 
to  feed  the  source  of  smiling  thoughts  hereafter.  I  would  not 
waste  them  in  idle  talk  ;  or  if  I  must  have  the  integrity  of 
fancy  broken  in  upon,  I  would  rather  it  were  by  a  stranger 
than  a  friend.  A  stranger  takes  his  hue  and  character 
from  the  time  and  place  ;    lac  is  a  part  of  the  furniture  and 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  315 

costume  of  an  inn.  If  he  is  a  Quaker,  or  from  the  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire,  so  much  the  better.  I  do  not  even  try 
to  sympathise  with  him,  and  he  breaks  no  squares.  I  asso- 
ciate nothing  with  my  travelling  companion  but  present  objects 
and  passing  events.  In  his  ignorance  of  me  and  my  affairs, 
I  in  a  manner  forget  myself.  But  a  friend  reminds  one  of 
other  things,  rips  up  old  grievances,  and  destroys  the  abstrac- 
tion of  the  scene.  He  comes  in  ungraciously  between  us  and 
our  imaginary  character.  Something  is  dropped  in  the  course 
of  conversation  that  gives  a  hint  of  your  profession  and  pur- 
suits ;  or  from  having  someone  with  you  that  knows  the  less 
sublime  portions  of  your  history,  it  seems  that  other  people 
do.  You  are  no  longer  a  citizen  of  the  world  ;  but  your  "  un- 
housed free  condition  is  put  into  circumscription  and  confine." 
The  incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking  privileges  — 
"  lord  of  one's  self,  uncumbered  with  a  name."  Oh  !  it  is 
great  to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the  world  and  of  public 
opinion  —  to  lose  our  importunate,  tormenting,  everlasting 
personal  identity  in  the  elements  of  nature,  and  become  the 
creature  of  the  moment,  clear  of  all  ties  —  to  hold  to  the  uni- 
verse only  by  a  dish  of  sweetbreads,  and  to  owe  nothing  but 
the  score  of  the  evening  —  and  no  longer  seeking  for  applause 
and  meeting  with  contempt,  to  be  known  by  no  other  title 
than  the  Gentleman  in  the  parlour  \  One  may  take  one's 
choice  of  all  characters  in  this  romantic  state  of  uncertainty 
as  to  one's  real  pretensions,  and  become  indefinitely  respect- 
able and  negatively  right- worshipful.  We  baffle  prejudice  and 
disappoint  conjecture  ;  and  from  being  so  to  others,  begin  to 
be  objects  of  curiosity  and  wonder  even  to  ourselves.  We  are 
no  more  those  hackneyed  commonplaces  that  we  appear  in 
the  world  :  an  inn  restores  us  to  the  level  of  nature,  and  quits 
scores  with  society !  I  have  certainly  spent  some  enviable 
hours  at  inns  —  sometimes  when  I  have  been  left  entirely  to 
myself,  and  have  tried  to  solve  some  metaphysical  problem, 
as  once  at  Witham  Common,  where  I  found  out  the  proof 
that  likeness  is   not  a  case   of  the   association  of  ideas  —  at 


3i6  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

other  times,  when  there  have  been  pictures  in  the  room,  as 
at  St.  Neot's  (I  think  it  was),  where  I  first  met  with  Gribehn's 
engravings  of  the  Cartoons,  into  which  I  entered  at  once,  and 
at  a  httle  inn  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  where  there  happened 
to  be  hanging  some  of  Westah's  chiiwings,  which  I  compared 
triumphantly  {for  a  theory  that  I  had,  not  for  the  admired 
artist)  with  the  figure  of  a  girl  who  had  ferried  me  over  the 
Severn,  standing  up  in  a  boat  between  me  and  the  twilight  — 
at  other  times  I  might  mention  luxuriating  in  books,  with  a 
peculiar  interest  in  tliis  way,  as  I  remember  sitting  up  half 
the  night  to  read  Paul  and  Virginia,  which  I  picked  up  at  an 
inn  at  Bridgewater,  after  being  drenched  in  the  rain  all  day  ; 
and  at  the  same  place  I  got  through  two  volumes  of  Madame 
U'Arblay's  Camilla.  It  was  on  the  loth  of  April,  1798,  that 
I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloisc,  at  the  inn  at 
Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  cold  chicken.  The 
letter  I  chose  was  that  in  which  St.  Preux  describes  his  feel- 
ings as  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  from  the  heights  of  the  Jura 
of  the  Pays  de  Vaud,  wliich  I  had  brought  with  me  as  a  bon 
boucJic  to  crown  the  evening  witli.  It  was  my  birthday,  and  I 
had  for  the  first  time  come  from  a  place  in  the  neighbourhood 
to  visit  this  delightful  spot.  The  road  to  Llangollen  turns  off 
between  Chirk  and  Wrexham  ;  and  on  passing  a  certain  point, 
you  come  all  at  once  upon  the  valley,  which  opens  like  an 
amphitheatre,  broad,  barren  hills  rising  in  majestic  state  on 
either  side,  with  "  green  upland  swells  that  echo  to  the  bleat 
of  flocks  "  below,  and  the  river  Dee  babbling  over  its  stony 
bed  in  the  midst  of  them.  The  valley  at  this  time  "glittered 
green  with  sunny  showers,"  and  a  budding  ash-tree  dipped 
its  tender  branches  in  the  chiding  stream.  How  proud,  how 
glad  I  was  to  walk  along  the  high  road  that  overlooks  the  deli- 
cious prospect,  repeating  the  lines  which  I  have  just  quoted 
from  Mr.  Coleridge's  poems  !  But  besides  the  prospect  which 
opened  beneath  my  feet,  another  also  opened  to  my  inward 
sight,  a  heavenly  vision,  on  which  were  written,  in  letters 
large  as  Hope  could  make  them,  these  four  words,  Liberty, 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  317 

Genius,  Love,  Virtue  ;  which  have  since  faded  into  the 
hght  of  common  da}',  or  mock  my  idle  gaze. 

The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not. 

Still  I  would  return  some  time  or  other  to  this  enchanted 
spot ;  but  I  would  return  to  it  alone.  Wliat  other  self  could 
I  find  to  share  that  influx  of  thoughts,  of  regret,  and  delight, 
the  fragments  of  which  I  could  hardly  conjure  up  to  myself, 
so  much  have  they  been  broken  and  defaced  !  I  could  stand 
on  some  tall  rock,  and  overlook  the  precipice  of  \ears  that 
separates  me  from  what  I  then  was.  I  w'as  at  that  time  going 
shortly  to  visit  the  poet  whom  I  have  above  named.  Where  is 
he  now  ?  Not  only  I  myself  have  changed  ;  the  world,  which 
was  then  new  to  me,  has  become  old  and  incorrigible.  Yet 
will  I  turn  to  thee  in  thought,  O  sylvan  Dee,  in  joy,  in  )outh 
and  gladness  as  thou  then  wert ;  and  thou  shalt  always  be  to 
me  the  river  of  Paradise,  where  I  will  drink  of  the  waters  of 
life  freely ! 

There  is  hardly  anything  that  shows  the  short-sightedness 
or  capriciousness  of  the  imagination  more  than  travelling  does. 
With  change  of  place  we  change  our  ideas  ;  nay,  our  opinions 
and  feelings.  We  can  by  an  effort  indeed  transport  ourselves 
to  old  and  long-forgotten  scenes,  and  then  the  picture  of  the 
mind  revives  again  ;  but  we  forget  those  that  we  have  just 
left.  It  seems  that  we  can  think  but  of  one  place  at  a  time. 
The  canvas  of  the  fancy  is  but  of  a  certain  extent,  and  if  we 
paint  one  set  of  objects  upon  it,  they  immediately  efface  every 
other.  We  cannot  enlarge  our  conceptions,  we  only  shift  our 
point  of  view.  The  landscape  bares  its  bosom  to  the  enrap- 
tured eye,  we  take  our  fill  of  it,  and  seem  as  if  we  could  form 
no  other  image  of  beauty  or  grandeur.  W^e  pass  on,  and  think 
no  more  of  it :  the  horizon  that  shuts  it  from  our  sight  also 
blots  it  from  our  memory  like  a  dream.  In  travelling  through 
a  wild,  barren  country,  I  can  form  no  idea  of  a  woody  and 
cultivated  one.  It  appears  to  me  that  all  the  world  must  be 
barren,  like  what  I  see  of  it.    In  the  country  we  forget  the 


3i8  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

town,  and  in  town  we  despise  the  country.  "  Beyond  Hyde 
Park,"  says  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  "all  is  a  desert."  All  that 
part  of  the  map  that  we  do  not  see  before  us  is  blank.  The 
world  in  our  conceit  of  it  is  not  much  bigger  than  a  nutshell. 
It  is  not  one  prospect  expanded  into  another,  county  joined  to 
county,  kingdom  to  kingdom,  lands  to  seas^  making  an  image 
voluminous  and  vast ;  —  the  mind  can  form  no  larger  idea  of 
space  than  the  eye  can  take  in  at  a  single  glance.  The  rest 
is  a  name  written  in  a  map,  a  calculation  of  arithmetic.  Vov 
instance,  what  is  the  true  signification  of  that  immense  mass 
of  territory  and  population,  known  by  the  name  of  China  to 
us  ?  An  inch  of  pasteboard  on  a  wooden  globe,  of  no  more 
account  than  a  China  orange  !  Things  near  us  are  seen  of  the 
size  of  life  :  things  at  a  distance  are  diminished  to  the  size  of 
the  understanding.  We  measure  the  universe  by  ourselves, 
and  even  comprehend  the  texture  of  our  own  being  only  piece- 
meal. In  this  way,  however,  we  remember  an  infinity  of  things 
and  places.  The  mind  is  like  a  mechanical  instrument  that 
plays  a  great  variety  of  tunes,  but  it  must  play  them  in  suc- 
cession. One  idea  recalls  another,  but  it  at  the  same  time 
excludes  all  others.  In  trying  to  renew  old  recollections,  we 
cannot  as  it  were  unfold  the  whole  web  of  our  existence  ;  we 
must  pick  out  the  single  threads.  So  in  coming  to  a  place 
where  we  have  formerly  lived,  and  with  which  we  have  intimate 
associations,  every  one  must  have  found  that  the  feeling  grows 
more  vivid  the  nearer  we  approach  the  spot,  from  the  mere 
anticipation  of  the  actual  impression  :  we  remember  circum- 
stances, feelings,  persons,  faces,  names  that  we  had  not  thought 
of  for  years  ;  but  for  the  time  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is 
forgotten  !  —  To  return  to  the  question  I  have  quitted  above. 
I  have  no  objection  to  go  to  see  ruins,  aqueducts,  pictures, 
in  company  with  a  friend  or  a  party,  but  rather  the  contrary, 
for  the  former  reason  reversed.  They  are  intelligible  matters, 
and  will  bear  talking  about.  The  sentiment  here  is  not  tacit, 
but  communicable  and  overt.  Salisbury  Plain  is  barren  of 
criticism,   but  Stonehenge  will  bear  a  discussion  antiquarian, 


WILLIAM   UAZLITT  319 

picturesque,  and  philosophical.  In  setting  out  on  a  party  of 
pleasure,  the  first  consideration  always  is  where  we  shall  go 
to  :  in  taking  a  solitary  ramble,  the  c|uestion  is  what  we  shall 
meet  with  by  the  way.  "  The  mind  is  its  own  place  "  ;  nor 
are  we  anxious  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  can 
myself  do  the  honours  indifferently  well  to  works  of  art  and 
curiosity.  I  once  took  a  party  to  Oxford  with  no  mean  eclat 
—  showed  them  that  seat  of  the  Muses  at  a  distance, 

With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd  — 

descanted  on  the  learned  air  that  breathes  from  the  grassy 
quadrangles  and  stone  walls  of  halls  and  cottages  —  was  at 
home  in  the  Bodleian  ;  and  at  Blenheim  cjuite  superseded  the 
powdered  Cicerone  that  attended  us,  and  that  pointed  in  vain 
with  his  wand  to  commonplace  beauties  in  matchless  pictures. 
As  another  exception  to  the  above  reasoning,  I  should  not 
feel  confident  in  venturing  on  a  journey  in  a  foreign  country 
without  a  companion.  I  should  want  at  intervals  to  hear  the 
sound  of  my  own  language.  There  is  an  involuntary  antipathy 
in  the  mind  of  an  Englishman  to  foreign  manners  and  notions 
that  requires  the  assistance  of  social  sympathy  to  carry  it  off. 
As  the  distance  from  home  increases,  this  relief,  which  was 
at  first  a  luxury,  becomes  a  passion  and  an  appetite.  A  person 
would  almost  feel  stifled  to  find  himself  in  the  deserts  of 
Arabia  without  friends  and  coimtrymen  :  there  must  be  allowed 
to  be  something  in  the  view  of  Athens  or  old  Rome  that 
claims  the  utterance  of  speech  ;  and  I  own  that  the  Pyramids 
are  too  mighty  for  any  single  contemplation.  In  such  situa- 
tions, so  opposite  to  all  one's  ordinary  train  of  ideas,  one 
seems  a  species  by  one's-self,  a  limb  torn  off  from  society,  un- 
less one  can  meet  with  instant  fellowship  and  support.  Yet  I 
did  not  feel  this  want  or  craving  very  pressing  once,  when  I 
first  set  my  foot  on  the  laughing  shores  of  France.  Calais 
was  peopled  with  novelty  and  delight.  The  confused,  busy 
murmur  of  the  place  was  like  oil  and  wine  poured  into  my 
ears ;  nor  did  the  Mariners'  Hymn,  which  was  sung  from  the 


320  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH^IAR  ESSAY 

top  of  an  old  crazy  vessel  in  the  harbour,  as  the  sun  went 
clown,  send  an  alien  sound  into  my  soul.  I  only  breathed 
the  air  of  general  humanity,  I  walked  over  "  the  vine-covered 
hills  and  gay  regions  of  France,"  erect  and  satisfied  ;  for  the 
image  of  man  was  not  cast  down  and  chained  to  the  foot  of 
arbitrary  thrones  :  I  was  at  no  loss  for  language,  for  that  of 
all  the  great  schools  of  painting  was  open  to  me.  The  whole 
is  vanished  like  a  shade.  Pictures,  heroes,  glory,  freedom,  all 
are  fled  :  nothing  remains  but  the  Bourbons  and  the  French 
people  !  —  There  is  undoubtedly  a  sensation  in  travelling  into 
foreign  parts  that  is  to  be  had  nowhere  else  :  but  it  is  more 
pleasing  at  the  time  than  lasting.  It  is  too  remote  from  our 
habitual  associations  to  be  a  common  topic  of  discourse  or 
reference,  and,  like  a  dream  or  another  state  of  existence,  does 
not  piece  into  our  daily  modes  of  life.  It  is  an  animated  but 
a  momentary  hallucination.  It  demands  an  effort  to  exchange 
our  actual  for  our  ideal  identity ;  and  to  feel  the  pulse  of  our 
old  transports  revive  very  keenly,  we  must  "jump"  all  our 
present  comforts  and  connexions.  Our  romantic  and  itinerant 
character  is  not  to  be  domesticated.  Dr.  Johnson  remarked 
how  little  foreign  travel  added  to  the  facilities  of  conversation 
in  those  who  had  been  abroad.  In  fact,  the  time  we  have 
spent  there  is  both  delightful,  and,  in  one  sense,  instructive  ; 
but  it  appears  to  be  cut  out  of  our  substantial,  downright 
existence,  and  never  to  join  kindly  on  to  it.  We  are  not  the 
same,  but  another,  and  perhaps  more  enviable  individual,  all 
the  time  we  are  out  of  our  own  country.  We  are  lost  to  our- 
selves, as  well  as  our  friends.    So  the  poet  somewhat  quaintly 

sings. 

Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go. 

Those  who  wish  to  forget  painful  thoughts,  do  well  to  absent 
themselves  for  a  while  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recall 
them  :  but  we  can  be  said  only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  in  the  place 
that  gave  us  birth.  I  should  on  this  account  like  well  enough 
to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travelling  abroad,  if  I  could 
anywhere  borrow  another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at  Iiome  ! 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  321 

ON  THE  FEELINO  OF  IMMORTALFFY   IN  YOUTH 

Alonthly  Magazine,  March,  1S27 

"Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  invisible  sun  within  us."  — 

Sir  Thomas  Brown 

No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  It  was  a  saying 
of  my  brother's,  and  a  fine  one.  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity 
in  youth,  which  makes  us  amends  for  ever)'thing.  To  be 
young  is  to  be  as  one  of  the  Immortal  Gods.  One  half  of 
time  indeed  is  flown  —  the  other  half  remains  in  store  for  us 
with  all  its  countless  treasures  ;  for  there  is  no  line  drawn, 
and  we  see  no  limit  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.  We  make  the 
coming  age  our  own.  ■ • 

The  vast,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  us. 

Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning,  that  pass  by  us 
like  the  idle  air  which  we  regard  not.  Others  may  have  under- 
gone, or  may  still  be  liable  to  them  —  we  "bear  a  charmed 
life,''  which  laughs  to  scorn  all  such  sickly  fancies.  As  in 
setting  out  on  a  delightful  journey,  we  strain  our  eager  gaze 

forward  — 

Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail,  — 

and  see  no  end  to  the  landscape,  new  objects  presenting  them- 
selves as  we  advance  ;  so,  in  the  commencement  of  life,  we 
set  no  bounds  to  our  inclinations,  nor  to  the  unrestricted 
opportunities  of  gratifying  them.  We  have  as  yet  found  no 
obstacle,  no  disposition  to  flag ;  and  it  seems  that  we  can  go 
on  so  for  ever.  We  look  round  in  a  new  world,  full  of  life, 
and  motion,  and  ceaseless  progress  ;  and  feel  in  ourselves  all 
the  vigour  and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not  foresee 
from  any  present  symptoms  how  we  shall  be  left  behind  in  the 
natural  course  of  things,  decline  into  old  age,  and  drop  into 
the  grave.  It  is  the  simplicity,  and  as  it  were  abstractedness 
of  our  feelings  in  youth,  that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with 
nature,    and    (our   experience   being    slight    and    our    passions 


322  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

strong")  deludes  us  into  a  belief  of  JDeing  immortal  like  it.  Our 
short-lived  connection  with  existence,  we  fondly  flatter  our- 
selves, is  an  indissoluble  and  lasting  union  —  a  honey-moon 
that  knows  neither  coldness,  jar,  nor  separation.  As  infants 
smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  our  wayward 
fancies,  and  lulled  into  security  by  the  roar  of  the  universe 
around  us  —  we  quaff  the  cup  of  life  with  eager  haste  without 
draining  it,  instead  of  which  it  only  overflows  the  more  — 
objects  press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their  magnitude 
and  with  the  throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that 
we  have  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death,  l^'rom  that  pleni- 
tude of  our  being,  we  cannot  change  all  at  once  to  dust  and 
ashes,  we  cannot  imagine  "  this  sensible,  warm  motion,  to 
become  a  kneaded  clod" — we  are  too  much  dazzled  by  the 
brig-htness  of  the  waking  dream  around  us  to  look  into  the 
darkness  of  the  tomb.  We  no  more  see  our  end  than  our  be- 
ginning :  the  one  is  lost  in  oblivion  and  vacancy,  as  the  other 
is  hid  from  us  by  the  crowd  and  hurry  of  approaching  events. 
Or  the  grim  shadow  is  seen  lingering  in  the  horizon,  which 
we  are  doomed  never  to  overtake,  or  whose  last,  faint,  glim- 
mering outline  touches  upon  Heaven  and  translates  us-  to  the 
skies  !  Nor  would  the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit  us  to 
detach  our  thoughts  from  present  objects  and  pursuits,  even  if 
we  would.  What  is  there  more  opposed  to  health,  than  sick- 
ness ;  to  strength  and  beauty,  than  decay  and  dissolution  ;  to 
the  active  search  of  knowledge  than  mere  oblivion  ?  Or  is 
there  none  of  the  usual  advantage  to  bar  the  approach  of 
Death,  and  mock  his  idle  threats  ;  Hope  supplies  their  place, 
and  draws  a  veil  over  the  abrupt  termination  of  all  our  cher- 
ished schemes.  While  the  spirit  of  youth  remains  unimpaired, 
ere  the  "  wine  of  life  is  drank  up  "  we  are  like  people  intoxi- 
cated or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  away  by  the  violence  of 
their  own  sensations  :  it  is  only  as  present  objects  begin  to  pall 
upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  favourite 
pursuits,  cut  off  from  our  closest  ties,  that  passion  loosens  its 
hold  upon  the  breast,  that  we  by  degrees  become  weaned  from 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  323 

the  world,  and  allow  ourselves  to  contemplate,  "as  in  a  glass, 
darkly,"  the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good.  The  ex- 
ample of  others,  the  voice  of  experience,  has  no  effect  upon 
us  whatever.  Casualties  we  must  avoid  :  the  slow  and  deliber- 
ate advances  of  age  we  can  play  at  hidc-and-seck  with.  We 
think  ourselves  too  lusty  and  too  nimble  for  that  blear-eyed 
decrepid  old  gentleman  to  catch  us.  Like  the  foolish  fat  scul- 
lion, in  Sterne,  when  she  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is  dead, 
our  only  reflection  is —  "  So  am  not  I  !  "  The  idea  of  death, 
instead  of  staggering  our  confidence,  rather  seems  to  strengthen 
and  enhance  our  possession  and  our  enjoyment  of  life.  Others 
may  fall  around  us  like  leaves,  or  be  mowed  down  like  flowers 
by  the  scythe  of  Time  :  these  are  but  tropes  and  figures  to  the 
unreflecting  ears  and  overweening  presumption  of  youth.  It  is 
not  till  we  see  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  withering 
around  us,  and  our  own  pleasures  cut  up  by  the  roots,  that  we 
bring  the  moral  home  to  ourselves,  that  we  abate  something 
of  the  wanton  extravagance  of  our  pretensions,  or  that  the 
emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  before  us  reconciles 
us  to  the  stillness  of  the  grave ! 

Life  !   thou  strange  thing,  that  hast  a  power  to  feel 
Thou  art,  and  to  perceive  that  others  are.^ 

Well  might  the  poet  begin  his  indignant  invective  against 
an  art,  whose  professed  object  is  its  destruction,  with  this  ani- 
mated apostrophe  to  life.  Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and 
its  privileges  are  most  miraculous.  Nor  is  it  singular  that 
when  the  splendid  boon  is  first  granted  us,  our  gratitude,  our 
admiration,  and  our  delight  should  prevent  us  from  reflecting 
on  our  own  nothingness,  or  from  thinking  it  will  ever  be 
recalled.  Our  first  and  strongest  impressions  are  taken  from 
the  mighty  scene  that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  very  innocently 
transfer  its  durability  as  well  as  magnificence  to  ourselves.  So 
newly  found,  we  cannot  make  up  our  minds  to  parting  with  it 
yet  and  at  least  put  off  that  consideration  to  an  indefinite  term, 

^  Fawcett's  A>i  of  liar,  a  poem,  1794. 


324  THE  ENdLlSH    FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Like  a  clown  at  a  fair,  \vc  are  full  of  amazement  and  rapture, 
and  have  no  thoughts  of  going  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be 
night.  We  know  our  existence  only  from  external  objects, 
and  we  measure  it  by  them.  We  can  never  be  satisfied  with 
gazing  ;  and  nature  will  still  want  us  to  look  on  and  applaud. 
Otherwise,  the  sumptuous  entertainment,  "  the  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul,'-'  to  which  they  were  invited  seems  little 
better  than  a  mockery  and  a  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go  from 
a  play  till  the  scene  is  ended,  and  the  lights  are  ready  to  be 
extinguished.  But  the  fair  face  of  things  still  shines  on  ;  shall 
we  be  called  away,  before  the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have 
scarce  had  a  glimpse  of  what  is  going  on  ?  Like  children,  our 
step-mother  Nature  holds  us  up  to  see  the  raree-show  of  the 
universe  ;  and  then,  as  if  life  were  a  burthen  to  support,  lets 
us  instantly  down  again.  Yet  in  that  short  interval,  what 
"brave  sublunary  things"  does  not  the  spectacle  unfold;  like 
a  bubble,  at  one  minute  reflecting  the  universe,  and  the  next, 
shook  to  air !  —  To  see  the  golden  sun  and  the  azure  sky,  the 
outstretched  ocean,  to  walk  upon  the  green  earth,  and  to  be 
lord  of  a  thousand  creatures,  to  look  down  giddy  precipices  or 
over  distant  flowery  vales,  to  see  the  world  spread  out  under 
one's  finger  in  a  map,  to  bring  the  stars  near,  to  view  the 
smallest  insects  in  a  microscope,  to  read  history,  and  witness 
the  revolutions  of  empires  and  the  succession  of  generations, 
to  hear  of  the  glory  of  Sidon  and  Tyre,  of  Babylon  and  Susa, 
as  of  a  faded  pageant,  and  to  say  all  these  were,  and  are  now 
nothing,  to  think  that  we  exist  in  such  a  point  of  time,  and 
in  such  a  corner  of  space,  to  be  at  once  spectators  and  a  part 
of  the  moving  scene,  to  watch  the  return  of  the  seasons,  of 
spring  and  autumn,  to  hear 

The  stockdove  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 


That  drowsy  rustles  to  the  sighing  gale 

to  traverse  desert  wildernesses,  to  listen  to  the  midnight  choir, 
to  visit  lighted  halls,  or  plunge  into  the  dungeon's  gloom,  or 
sit  in  crowded  theatres  and  sec  life  itself  mocked,  to  feel  heat 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  325 

and  cold,  pleasure  and  pain,  right  and  wrong,  truth  and  false- 
hood, to  study  the  works  of  art  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty 
to  agony,  to  worship  fame  and  to  dream  of  immortality,  to 
have  read  Shakspeare  and  belong  to  the  same  species  as 
Sir  Isaac  Newton  ;  to  be  and  to  do  all  this,  and  then  in  a 
moment  to  be  nothing,  to  have  it  all  snatched  from  one  like 
a  juggler's  ball  or  a  phantasmagoria  ;  there  is  something  revolt- 
ing and  incredible  to  sense  in  the  transition,  and  no  wonder 
that,  aided  by  youth  and  warm  blood,  and  the  flush  of  enthu- 
siasm, the  mind  contrives  for  a  long  time  to  reject  it  with 
disdain  and  loathing  as  a  monstrous  and  improbable  fiction, 
like  a  monkey  on  a  house-top,  that  is  loath,  amidst  its  fine 
discoveries  and  specious  antics,  to  be  tumbled  head-long  into 
the  street,  and  crushed  to  atoms,  the  sport  and  laughter  of 
the  multitude  ! 

The  change,  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  life, 
appears  like  a  fable,  after  it  has  taken  place  ;  how  should  we 
treat  it  otherwise  than  as  a  chimera  before  it  has  come  to  pass  ? 
There  are  some  things  that  happened  so  long  ago,  places  or 
persons  we  have  formerly  seen,  of  which  such  dim  traces  re- 
main, we  hardly  know  whether  it  was  sleeping  or  waking  they 
occurred;  they  are  like  dreams  within  the  dream  of  life,  a  mist, 
a  film  before  the  eye  of  memory,  which,  as  we  try  to  recall 
them  more  distinctly,  elude  our  notice  altogether.  It  is  but 
natural  that  the  lone  interval  that  we  thus  look  back  upon, 
should  have  appeared  long  and  endless  in  prospect.  There  are 
others  so  distinct  and  fresh,  they  seem  but  of  yesterday  —  their 
very  vividness  might  be  deemed  a  pledge  of  their  permanence. 
Then,  however  far  back  our  impressions  may  go,  we  find  others 
still  older  (for  our  years  are  multiplied  in  youth)  ;  descriptions 
of  scenes  that  we  had  read,  and  people  before  our  time,  Priam 
and  the  Trojan  war ;  and  even  then,  Nestor  was  old  and  dwelt 
delighted  on  his  youth,  and  spoke  of  the  race  of  heroes  that 
were  no  more  ;  —  what  wonder  that,  seeing  this  long  line  of 
being  pictured  in  our  minds,  and  reviving  as  it  were  in  us,  we 
should  give  ourselves  involuntary  credit  for  an  indeterminate 


326  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

period  of  existence  ?  In  the  Cathedral  at  Peterborough  there 
is  a  monument  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  at  which  I  used  to 
gaze  when  a  boy,  while  the  events  of  the  period,  all  that  had 
happened  since,  passed  in  review  before  me.  If  all  this  mass 
of  feeling  and  imagination  could  be  crowded  into  a  moment's 
compass,  what  might  not  the  whole  of  life  be  supposed  to  con- 
tain ?  We  are  heirs  of  the  past ;  we  count  upon  the  future  as 
our  natural  reversion.  Besides,  there  are  some  of  our  early 
impressions  so  exquisitely  tempered,  it  appears  that  they  must 
always  last  —  nothing  can  add  to  or  take  away  from  their 
sweetness  and  purity  —  the  first  breath  of  spring,  the  hyacinth 
dipped  in  the  dew,  the  mild  lustre  of  the  evening-star,  the 
rainbow  after  a  storm  —  while  we  have  the  full  enjoyment  of 
these,  we  must  be  young ;  and  what  can  ever  alter  us  in  this 
respect .?  Truth,  friendship,  love,  books,  are  also  proof  against 
the  canker  of  time  ;  and  while  we  live  but  for  them,  we  can 
never  grow  old.  We  take  out  a  new  lease  of  existence  from 
the  objects  on  which  we  set  our  affections,  and  become 
abstracted,  impassive,  immortal  in  them.  We  cannot  conceive 
how  certain  sentiments  should  ever  decay  or  grow  cold  in  our 
breasts ;  and,  consequently,  to  m^aintain  them  in  their  first 
youthful  glow  and  vigour,  the  flame  of  life  must  continue  to 
burn  as  bright  as  ever,  or  rather,  they  are  the  fuel  that  feed 
the  sacred  lamp,  that  kindle  "  the  purj^le  light  of  love,"  and 
spread  a  golden  cloud  around  our  heads  !  Again,  we  not  only 
flourish  and  survive  in  our  affections  (in  which  we  will  not 
listen  to  the  possibility  of  a  change,  any  more  than  we  fore- 
see the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  a  mistress),  but  we  have  a 
farther  guarantee  against  the  thoughts  of  death  in  our  favourite 
studies  and  pursuits,  and  in  their  continual  advance.  Art  we 
know  is  long ;  life,  we  feel,  should  be  so  too.  We  see  no  end 
of  the  difficulties  we  have  to  encounter :  perfection  is  slow 
of  attainment,  and  we  must  have  time  to  accomplish  it  in. 
Rubens  complained  that  when  he  fiad  just  learnt  his  art,  he 
was  snatched  away  from  it :  we  trust  we  shall  be  more  fortu- 
nate !    A  wrinkle  in  an  old  head  takes  whole  days  to  finish  it 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  327 

properly:  but  to  catch  "the  Raphael  grace,  the  Guido  air," 
no  limit  should  be  put  to  our  endeavours.  What  a  prospect 
for  the  future  !  What  a  task  we  have  entered  upon  !  and  shall 
we  be  arrested  in  the  middle  of  it  ?  We  do  not  reckon  our 
time  thus  employed  lost,  or  our  pains  thrown  away,  or  our 
progress  slow  —  we  do  not  droop  or  grow  tired,  but  "gain 
new  vigour  at  our  endless  task";  —  and  shall  Time  grudge 
us  the  opportunity  to  finish  what  we  have  auspiciously  begun, 
and  have  formed  a  sort  of  compact  with  nature  to  achieve  ? 
The  fame  of  the  great  names  we  look  up  to  is  also  imperish- 
able ;  and  shall  not  we,  who  contemplate  it  with  such  intense 
yearnings,  imbibe  a  portion  of  ethereal  fire,  the  divince  parti- 
ciila  aune,  which  nothing  can  extinguish  ?  I  remember  to 
have  looked  at  a  print  of  Rembrandt  for  hours  together,  with- 
out being  conscious  of  the  flight  of  time,  trying  to  resolve  it 
into  its  component  parts,  to  connect  its  strong  and  sharp  grada- 
tions, to  learn  the  secret  of  its  reflected  lights,  and  found 
neither  satiety  nor  pause  in  the  prosecution  of  my  studies. 
The  print  over  which  I  was  poring  would  last  long  enough  ; 
why  should  the  idea  in  my  mind,  which  was  finer,  more  im- 
palpable, perish  before  it  ?  At  this,  I  redoubled  the  ardour  of 
my  pursuit,  and  by  the  very  subtlety  and  refinement  of  my 
inquiries,  seemed  to  bespeak  for  them  an  exemption  from 
corruption  and  the  rude  grasp  of  Death. ^ 

Objects,  on  our  first  acquaintance  with  them,  have  that 
singleness  and  integrity  of  impression  that  it  seems  as  if 
nothing  could  destroy  or  obliterate  them,  so  firmly  are  they 
stamped  and  rivetted  on  the  brain.  We  repose  on  them  with 
a  sort  of  voluptuous  indolence,  in  full  faith  and  boundless  con- 
fidence. We  are  absorbed  in  the  present  moment,  or  return  to 
the  same  point  —  idling  away  a  great  deal  of  time  in  youth, 
thinking  we  have  enough  and  to  spare.  There  is  often  a  local 
feeling  in  the  air,  which  is  as  fixed  as  if  it  were  of  marble ; 

^  Is  it  not  this  that  frequently  keeps  artists  ahve  so  long,  viz.  the  constant 
occupation  of  their  minds  with  vivid  images,  with  little  of  the  tvear-and-tear 
of  the  body  ? 


32S  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

we  loiter  in  dim  cloisters,  losing  ourselves  in  thought  and  in 
their  glimmering  arches ;  a  winding  road  before  us  seems  as 
long  as  the  journey  of  life,  and  as  full  of  events.  Time  and 
experience  dissipate  this  illusion  ;  and  by  reducing  them  to 
detail,  circumscribe  the  limits  of  our  expectations.  It  is  only 
as  the  pageant  of  life  passes  by  and  the  masques  turn  their 
backs  upon  us,  that  we  see  through  the  deception,  or  believe 
thai  the  train  will  have  an  end.  In  many  cases,  the  slow  prog- 
ress and  monotonous  texture  of  our  lives,  before  we  mingle 
with  the  world  and  are  embroiled  in  its  affairs,  has  a  tend- 
ency to  aid  the  same  feeling.  We  have  a  difficulty,  when  left 
to  ourselves,  and  without  the  resource  of  books  or  some  more 
lively  pursuit,  to  "  beguile  the  slow  and  creeping  hours  of 
time,"  and  argue  that  if  it  moves  on  always  at  this  tedious 
snail's-pace,  it  can  never  come  to  an  end.  We  are  willing  to 
skip  over  certain  portions  of  it  that  separate  us  from  favourite 
objects,  that  irritate  ourselves  at  the  unnecessary  delay.  The 
young  are  prodigal  of  life  from  a  superabundance  of  it ;  the 
old  are  tenacious  on  the  same  score,  because  they  have  little 
left,  and  cannot  enjoy  even  what  remains  of  it. 

For  my  part,  I  set  out  in  life  with  the  French  Revolution, 
and  that  event  had  considerable  influence  on  my  early  feelings, 
as  on  those  of  others.  Youth  was  then  doubly  such.  It  was 
the  dawn  of  a  new  era,  a  new  impulse  had  been  given  to  men's 
minds,  and  the  sun  of  Liberty  rose  upon  the  sun  of  Life  in 
the  same  day,  and  both  were  proud  to  run  their  race  together. 
Little  did  I  dream,  while  my  first  hopes  and  wishes  went  hand 
in  hand  with  those  of  the  human  race,  that  long  before  my 
eyes  should  close,  that  dawn  would  be  ovdrcast,  and  set  once 
more  in  the  night  of  despotism  —  "total  eclipse!"  Happy 
that  I  did  not.  I  felt  for  years,  and  during  the  best  part  of 
my  existence,  hcart-ivhole  in  that  cause,  and  triumphed  in  the 
triumphs  over  the  enemies  of  man  !  At  that  time,  while  the 
fairest  aspirations  of  the  human  mind  seemed  about  to  be  real- 
ized, ere  tlie  image  of  man  was  defaced  and  his  breast  mangled 
in  scorn,  philosophy  took  a  higher,  poetry  could  afford  a  deeper 


WlLLIA^l   IIAZLirr  329 

range.  At  that  time,  to  read  the  Robbers,  was  indeed  dehcious, 
and  to  hear 

From  the  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry, 

could  be  borne  only  amidst  the  fulness  of  hope,  the  crash  of 
the  fall  of  the  strongholds  of  power,  and  the  exulting  sounds 
of  the  march  of  human  freedom.  What  feelings  the  death- 
scene  in  Don  Carlos  sent  into  the  soul  !  In  that  headlong 
career  of  lofty  enthusiasm,  and  the  joyous  opening  of  the 
prospects  of  the  world  and  our  own,  the  thought  of  death 
crossing  it  smote  doubly  cold  upon  the  mind  ;  there  was  a 
stifling  sense  of  oppression  and  confinement,  an  impatience  of 
our  present  knowledge,  a  desire  to  grasp  the  whole  (jf  our 
existence  in  one  strong  embrace,  to  sound  the  mystery  of  life 
and  death,  and  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  agony  of  doubt 
and  dread,  to  burst  through  our  prison-house,  and  confront 
the  King  of  Terrors  in  his  grisly  palace !  .  .  .  As  I  was 
writing  out  this  passage,  my  miniature-picture  when  a  child 
lay  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  I  took  it  out  of  the  case  to  look 
at  it.  I  could  perceive  few  traces  of  myself  in  it ;  but  there 
was  the  same  placid  brow,  the  dimpled  mouth,  the  same  timid, 
inquisitive  glance  as  ever.  But  its  careless  smile  did  not  seem 
to  reproach  me  with  having  become  a  recreant  to  the  senti- 
ments that  were  then  sown  in  my  mind,  or  with  having  writ- 
ten a  sentence  that  could  call  up  a  blush  in  this  image  of 
ingenuous  youth  ! 

"  That  time  is  past  with  all  its  giddy  raptures."  Since  the 
future  was  barred  to  my  progress,  I  have  turned  for  consola- 
tion to  the  past,  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  my  early  recol- 
lections, and  putting  them  into  a  form  that  might  live.  It  is 
thus,  that  when  we  find  our  personal  and  substantial  identity 
vanishing  from  us,  we  strive  to  gain  a  reflected  and  substituted 
one  in  our  thoughts  :  we  do  not  like  to  perish  wholly,  and 
wish  to  bequeath  our  names  at  least  to  posterity.  As  long  as 
we  can  keep  alive  our  cherished  thoughts  and  nearest  interests 


330  THE  ENGLISH   F'AMILLVR  ESSAY 

in  the  minds  of  others,  we  do  not  appear  to  have  retired  alto- 
gether from  the  stage,  we  still  occupy  a  place  in  the  estimation 
of  mankind,  exercise  a  powerful  influence  over  them,  and  it  is 
only  our  bodies  that  are  trampled  into  dust  or  dispersed  to  air. 
Our  darling  speculations  still  find  favour  and  encouragement, 
and  w^e  make  as  good  a  figure  in  the  eyes  of  our  descendants, 
nay,  perhaps,  a  better  than  we  did  in  our  life-time.  This  is 
one  point  gained  ;  the  demands  of  our  self-love  are  so  far  sat- 
isfied. Besides,  if  by  the  proofs  of  intellectual  superiority  we 
survive  ourselves  in  this  world,  by  exemplary  virtue  or  unblem- 
ished faith  we  are  taught  to  ensure  an  interest  in  another  and 
a  higher  state  of  being,  and  to  anticipate  at  the  same  time  the 
applauses  of  men  and  angels. 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries ; 
Even  in  our  ashes  Uve  their  wonted  fires. 

As  we  advance  in  life,  we  acquire  a  keener  sense  of  the  value 
of  time.  Nothing  else,  indeed,  seems  of  any  consequence ;  and 
we  become  misers  in  this  respect.  We  try  to  arrest  its  few 
last  tottering  steps,  and  to  make  it  linger  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave.  We  can  never  leave  off  wondering  how  that  which  has 
ever  been  should  cease  to  be,  and  would  still  live  on,  that  we 
may  wonder  at  our  own  shadow,  and  when  "all  the  life  of  life 
is  flown,"  dwell  on  the  retrospect  of  the  past.  This  is  accom- 
panied by  a  mechanical  tenaciousness  of  whatever  we  possess, 
by  a  distrust  and  a  sense  of  fallacious  hollowness  in  all  we 
see.  Instead  of  the  full,  pulpy  feeling  of  youth,  everything  is 
flat  and  insipid.  The  world  is  a  painted  witch,  that  puts  us 
off  with  false  shews  and  tempting  appearances.  The  ease,  the 
jocund  gaiety,  the  unsuspecting  security  of  youth  are  fled  :  nor 
can  we,  without  flying  in  the  face  of  common  sense, 

From  the  last  dregs  of  life,  hope  to  receive 
What  its  first  sprightly  runnings  could  not  give. 

If  we  can  slip  out  of  the  world  without  notice  or  mischance, 
can  tamper  with  bodily  infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  331 

becoming  composure  of  still-life,  before  we  sink  into  total  in- 
sensibility, it  is  as  much  as  we  ought  to  expect.  We  do  not  in 
the  regular  course  of  nature  die  all  at  once :  we  have  mouldered 
away  gradually  long  before  ;  faculty  after  faculty,  attachment 
after  attachment,  we  are  torn  from  ourselves  piece-meal  while 
living ;  year  after  year  takes  something  from  us  ;  and  death 
only  consigns  the  last  remnant  of  what  we  were  to  the  grave. 
The  revulsion  is  not  so  great,  and  a  quiet  euthanasia  is  a 
winding-up  of  the  plot,  that  is  not  out  of  reason  or  nature. 

That  we  should  thus  in  a  manner  outlive  ourselves,  and 
dwindle  imperceptibly  into  nothing,  is  not  surprising,  when 
even  in  our  prime  the  strongest  impressions  leave  so  little 
traces  of  themselves  behind,  and  the  last  object  is  driven  out 
by  the  succeeding  one.  How  little  effect  is  produced  on  us  at 
any  time  by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes  we  have  wit- 
nessed, the  sufferings  we  have  gone  through  !  Think  only  of 
the  variety  of  feelings  we  experience  in  reading  an  interesting 
romance,  or  being  present  at  a  fine  play  —  what  beauty,  what 
sublimity,  what  soothing,  what  heart-rending  emotions !  You 
would  suppose  these  would  last  for  ever,  or  at  least  subdue  the 
mind  to  a  correspondent  tone  and  harmony- — while  we  turn 
over  the  page,  while  the  scene  is  passing  before  us,  it  seems  as 
if  nothing  could  ever  after  shake  our  resolution,  that  "  treason 
domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing  could  touch  us  farther !  "  The 
first  splash  of  mud  we  get,  on  entering  the  street,  the  first 
pettifogging  shop-keeper  that  cheats  us  out  of  twopence,  and 
the  whole  vanishes  clean  out  of  our  remembrance,  and  we  be- 
come the  idle  prey  of  the  mcjst  petty  and  annoying  circum- 
stances. The  mind  soars  by  an  effort  to  the  grand  and  loft}' : 
it  is  at  home  in  the  grovelling,  the  disagreeable,  and  the  little. 
This  happens  in  the  height  and  heyday  of  our  existence,  when 
novelty  gives  a  stronger  impulse  to  the  blood  and  takes  a  faster 
hold  of  the  brain,  (I  have  known  the  impression  on  coming 
out  of  a  gallery  of  pictures  then  last  half  a  day)  —  as  we  grow 
old,  we  become  more  feeble  and  querulous,  every  object  '"  re- 
verbs  its  own  hollowness,"  and  both  worlds  are  not  enough  to 


^3- 


THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 


satisfy  the  peevish  importunity  and  extravagant  presumption  of 
our  desires  !  There  are  a  few  superior,  happy  beings,  who  are 
born  witli  a  temper  exempt  from  every  trifling  annoyance. 
This  spirit  sits  serene  and  smihng  as  in  its  native  skies,  and  a 
divine  harmony  (whether  heard  or  not)  plays  around  them.  This 
is  to  be  at  peace.  Without  this,  it  is  in  vain  to  fly  into  deserts, 
or  to  build  a  hermitage  on  the  top  of  rocks,  if  regret  and  ill- 
humour  follow  us  there  :  and  with  this,  it  is  needless  to  make 
the  experiment.  The  only  true  retirement  is  that  of  the  heart ; 
the  only  true  leisure  is  the  repose  of  the  passions.  To  such 
persons  it  makes  little  difference  whether  they  are  young  or 
old  ;  and  they  die  as  they  have  lived,  with  graceful  resignation. 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

(1811-1863) 

TUNBRIDGE  TOYS 

ConiJiill  Magazine,  September,  1 860 

I  wonder  whether  those  little  silver  pencil-cases  with  a  mov- 
able almanack  at  the  butt-end  are  still  favourite  implements  with 
boys,  and  whether  pedlars  still  hawk  them  about  the  country  ? 
Are  there  pedlars  and  hawkers  still,  or  are  rustics  and  children 
grown  too  sharp  to  deal  with  them  ?  Those  pencil-cases,  as 
far  as  my  memory  serves  me,  were  not  of  much  use.  The 
screw,  upon  which  the  movable  almanack  turned,  was  constantly 
getting  loose.  The  i  of  the  table  would  work  from  its  moor- 
ings, under  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  as  the  case  might  be,  and 
you  would  find,  on  examination,  that  Th.  or  W.  was  the  23! 
of  the  month  (which  was  absurd  on  the  face  of  the  thing),  and 
in  a  word  your  cherished  pencil-case  an  utterly  unreliable  time- 
keeper. Nor  was  this  a  matter  of  wonder.  Consider  the  posi- 
tion of  a  pencil-case  in  a  boy's  pocket.  You  had  hardbake  in 
it ;  marbles,  kept  in  your  purse  when  the  money  was  all  gone  ; 
your  mother's  purse,  knitted  so  fondly  and  supplied  with  a 
little  bit  of  gold,  long  since  —  prodigal  little  son  !  —  scattered 
amongst  the  swine  —  I  mean  amongst  brandy-balls,  open  tarts, 
three-cornered  puffs,  and  similar  abominations.  You  had  a  top 
and  string ;  a  knife ;  a  piece  of  cobbler's  wax ;  two  or  three 
bullets;  a  "  Litde  Warbler";  and  I,  for  my  part,  remember, 
for  a  considerable  period,  a  brass-barrelled  pocket-pistol  (which 
would  fire  beautifully,  for  with  it  I  shot  off  a  button  from  Butt 
Major's  jacket);  —  with  all  these  things,  and  ever  so  many 
more,  clinking  and  ratding  in  your  pockets,  and  your  hands, 
of  course,   keeping  them  in  perpetual   movement,   how  could 


334  'I'HE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

you  expect  your  movable  almanack  not  to  be  twisted  out  of 
its  place  now  and  again  —  your  pencil-case  to  be  bent  —  your 
liquorice  water  not  to  leak  out  of  your  bottle  over  the  cobbler's 
wax,  your  bull's-eyes  not  to  ram  up  the  lock  and  barrel  of  your 
pistol,  and  so  forth  ? 

In  the  month  of  June,  thirty-seven  years  ago,  I  bought  one 
of  those  pencil-cases  from  a  boy  whom  I  shall  call  Hawker, 
and  who  was  in  my  form.  Is  he  dead  ?  Is  he  a  millionaire  ? 
Is  he  a  bankrupt  now  ?  He  was  an  immense  screw  at  school, 
and  I  believe  to  this  day  that  the  value  of  the  thing  for  which 
I  ow'ed  and  eventually  paid  three-and-sixpence,  was  in  reality 
not  one-and-nine. 

I  certainly  enjoyed  the  case  at  first  a  good  deal,  and  amused 
myself  with  twiddling  round  the  movable  calendar.  But  this 
pleasure  wore  off.  The  jewel,  as  I  said,  was  not  paid  for,  and 
Hawker,  a  large  and  violent  boy,  was  exceedingly  unpleasant 
as  a  creditor.  His  constant  remark  was,  "  When  are  you  going 
to  pay  me  that  three-and-sixpence  ?  What  sneaks  your  rela- 
tions must  be  !  They  come  to  see  you.  You  go  out  to  them 
on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and  they  never  give  you  anything  ! 
Don't  tell  mc,  you  little  humbug  !  "  and  so  forth.  The  truth 
is  that  my  relations  were  respectable  ;  but  my  parents  were 
making  a  tour  in  Scotland  ;  and  my  friends  in  London,  whom 
I  used  to  go  and  see,  were  most  kind  to  me,  certainl)',  but 
somehow  never  tipped  me.  That  term,  of  May  to  August 
1823,  passed  in  agonies,  then,  in  consequence  of  my  debt  to 
Hawker.  What  was  the  pleasure  of  a  calendar  pencil-case  in 
comparison  with  the  doubt  and  torture  of  mind  occasioned 
by  the  sense  of  the  debt,  and  the  constant  reproach  in  that 
fellow's  scowling  eyes  and  gloomy  coarse  reminders  }  How 
was  I  to  pay  off  such  a  debt  out  of  sixpence  a  week }  ludi- 
crous !  Why  did  not  some  one  come  to  see  me,  and  tip  me .? 
Ah  !  my  dear  sir,  if  you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  go 
and  see  them,  and  do  the  natural  thing  by  them.  You  won't 
miss  the  sovereign.  You  don't  know  what  a  blessing  it  will  be 
to  them.    Don't  fancy  they  are  too  old  —  try  'em.    And  they 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  335 

will  remember  you,  and  bless  you  in  future  da}'S  ;  and  their 
gratitude  shall  accompany  your  dreary  after  life  ;  and  they  shall 
meet  you  kindly  when  thanks  for  kindness  are  scant.  Oh 
mercy !  shall  I  ever  forget  that  sovereign  you  gave  me,  Cap- 
tain Bob  ?  or  the  agonies  of  being  in  debt  to  Hawker  ?  In 
that  very  term,  a  relation  of  mine  was  going  to  India.  I  actu- 
ally was  fetched  from  school  in  order  to  take  leave  of  him.  I 
am  afraid  I  told  Hawker  of  this  circumstance.  I  own  I  specu- 
lated upon  my  friend's  giving  me  a  pound.  A  pound  .''  Pooh  ! 
A  relation  going  to  India,  and  deeply  affected  at  parting  from 
his  darling  kinsman,  might  give  five  pounds  to  the  dear  fellow  ! 
.  .  .  There  was  Hawker  when  I  came  back  —  of  course  there 
he  was.  As  he  looked  in  my  scared  face,  his  turned  livid  with 
rage.  He  muttered  curses,  terrible  from  the  lips  of  so  young 
a  boy.  My  relation,  about  to  cross  the  ocean  to  fill  a  lucrative 
appointment,  asked  me  with  much  interest  about  my  progress 
at  school,  heard  me  construe  a  passage  of  Eutropius,  the  pleas- 
ing Latin  work  on  which  I  was  then  engaged  ;  gave  me  a  God 
bless  you,  and  sent  me  back  to  school ;  upon  my  word  of 
honour,  without  so  much  as  a  half-crown  !  It  is  all  very  well, 
my  dear  sir,  to  say  that  boys  contract  habits  of  expecting  tips 
from  their  parents'  friends,  that  they  become  avaricious,  and 
so  forth.  Avaricious  !  fudge  !  Boys  contract  habits  of  tart  and 
toffee  eating,  which  they  do  not  carry  into  after  life.  On  the 
contrary,  I  wish  I  did  like  'em.  What  raptures  of  pleasure 
one  could  have  now  for  five  shillings,  if  one  could  but  pick  it 
off  the  pastry-cook's  tray  !  No.  If  you  have  any  little  friends 
at  school,  out  with  your  half-crowns,  my  friend,  and  impart  to 
those  little  ones  the  little  fleeting  joys  of  their  age. 

Well,  then.  At  the  beginning  of  August  1823,  Bartlemy- 
tide  holidays  came,  and  I  was  to  go  to  my  parents,  who  were 
at  Tunbridge  Wells.  My  place  in  the  coach  was  taken  by  my 
tutor's  servants  — "' Bolt-in-Tun,"  Fleet  Street,  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  was  the  word.    My  tutor,  the  Reverend  Edward 

P ,  to  whom  I  hereby  present  my  best  compliments,  had 

a  parting  interview  with  me  :  gave  me  my  little  account  for  my 


336  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

governor  :  the  remaining  part  of  the  coach-hire  ;  five  shillings 
for  my  own  expenses ;  and  some  five-and-twenty  shillings  on 
an  old  account  which  had  been  overpaid,  and  was  to  be  restored 
to  my  family. 

Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker  his  three-and-six.  Ouf  !  what 
a  w^eight  it  was  off  my  mind  !  (He  was  a  Norfolk  boy,  and 
used  to  go  home  from  Mrs.  Nelson's  "  l^ell  Inn,"  Aldgate  — 
but  that  is  not  to  the  point.)  The  next  morning,  of  course, 
we  were  an  hour  before  the  time.  I  and  another  boy  shared 
a  hackney-coach,  two-and-six  ;  porter  for  putting  luggage  on 
coach,  threepence.  I  had  n(^  more  money  of  my  own  left. 
Rasherwell,  my  companion,  went  into  the  "  IJolt-in-Tun " 
coffee-room,  and  had  a  good  breakfast.  I  could  n't :  because, 
though  I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my  parents'  money, 
I  had  none  of  my  ovi'n,  you  see. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  without  breakfast,  and  still  remem- 
ber how  strongly  I  had  that  resolution  in  my  mind.  But  there 
was  that  hour  to  wait.  A  beautiful  August  morning  —  I  am 
very  hungry.  There  is  Rasherwell  "tucking"  away  in  the 
coffee-room.  I  pace  the  street,  as  sadly  almost  as  if  I  had 
been  coming  to  school,  not  going  thence.  I  turn  into  a  court 
by  mere  chance  —  I  vow  it  was  by  mere  chance  —  and  there 
I  see  a  coffee-shop  with  a  placard  in  the  window.  "  Coffee, 
Twopence.  Round  of  buttered  toast.  Twopence."  And  here 
am  I  hungry,  penniless,  with  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my 
parents'  money  in  my  pocket. 

What  would  you  have  done  ?  You  see  I  had  had  my  money, 
and  spent  it  in  that  pencil-case  affair.  The  five-and-twenty 
shillings  were  a  trust  —  by  me  to  be  handed  over. 

But  then  would  my  parents  wish  their  only  child  to  be 
actually  without  breakfast  ?  Having  this  money  and  being 
so  hungry,  so  vny  hungry,  mightn't  I  take  ever  so  little.'' 
Mightn't  I  at  home  eat  as  much  as  I  chose.? 

Well,  I  went  into  the  coffee-shop,  and  spent  fourpence.  I 
remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee  and  toast  to  this  day  —  a  pe- 
culiar, muddy,  not-sweet-enough,  most  fragrant  coffee  —  a  rich. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  337 

rancid,  yet  not-buttcrcd-cnough,  delicious  toast.  The  waiter  had 
nothing.  At  any  rate,  fourpence,  I  know,  was  the  sum  I  spent. 
And  the  hunger  appeased,  I  got  on  the  coach  a  guilty  being. 

At  the  last  stage,  —  what  is  its  name }  I  have  forgotten  in 
seven-and-thirty  years,  —  there  is  an  inn  with  a  little  green  and 
trees  before  it ;  and  by  the  trees  there  is  an  open  carriage.  It  is 
cur  carriage.  Yes,  there  are  Prince  and  Blucher,  the  horses  ; 
and  my  parents  in  the  carriage.  Oh  !  how  I  had  been  counting 
the  days  until  this  one  came  !  Oh  !  how  happy  had  I  been  to  see 
them  yesterday  !  But  there  was  that  fourpence.  All  the  journey 
down  the  toast  had  choked  me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned  me. 

I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the  fourpence  that 
I  forgot  the  maternal  joy  and  caresses,  the  tender  paternal 
voice.  I  pulled  out  the  twenty-four  shillings  and  eightpence 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

'"  Here  's  your  money,"  I  gasped  out,   "  which  Mr.  P 

owes  you,  all  but  fourpence.  I  owed  three-and-sixpence  to 
Hawker  out  of  my  money  for  a  pencil-case,  and  I  had  none  left, 
and  I  took  fourpence  of  yours,  and  had  some  coffee  at  a  shop." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  choking  whilst  uttering  this 
confession. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  says  the  governor,  "  why  did  n't  you  go  and 
breakfast  at  the  hotel  ?  " 

"He  must  be  starved,"  says  my  mother. 

I  had  confessed  ;  I  had  been  a  prodigal  ;  I  had  been  taken 
back  to  my  parents'  arms  again.  It  was  not  a  very  great  crime 
as  yet,  or  a  very  long  career  of  prodigality ;  but  don't  we  know 
that  a  boy  who  takes  a  pin  which  is  not  his  own,  will  take  a 
thousand  pounds  when  occasion  serves,  bring  his  parents'  grey 
heads  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  cany  his  own  to  the  gal- 
lows ?  Witness  the  career  of  Dick  Idle,  upon  whom  our  friend 
Mr.  Sala  has  been  discoursing.  Dick  only  began  by  playing 
pitch-and-toss  on  a  tombstone  :  playing  fair,  for  what  we  know  : 
and  even  for  that  sin  he  was  promptly  caned  by  the  beadle. 
The  bamboo  was  ineffectual  to  cane  that  reprobate's  bad  courses 
out  of  him.    P^rom  pitch-and-toss  he  proceeded  to  manslaughter 


338  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

if  necessary  :  to  highway  robbery ;  to  Tyburn  and  the  rope 
there.  Ah  !  Heaven  be  thanked,  my  parents'  heads  are  still 
above  the  grass,  and  mine  still  out  of  the  noose. 

As  I  look  up  from  my  desk,  I  see  Tunbridge  Wells  Com- 
mon and  the  rocks,  the  strange  familiar  place  which  I  remem- 
ber forty  years  ago.  Boys  saunter  over  the  green  with  stumps 
and  cricket-bats.  Other  boys  gallop  by  on  the  riding-master's 
hacks.  I  protest  it  is  "  Cramp,  Riding  Master,"  as  it  used  to 
be  in  the  reign  of  George  IV,  and  that  Centaur  Cramp  must 
be  at  least  a  hundred  years  old.  Yonder  comes  a  footman 
witli  a  bundle  of  novels  from  the  library.  Are  they  as  good 
as  our  novels  ?  Oh  !  how  delightful  they  were !  Shades  of 
Valancour,  awful  ghost  of  Manfroni,  how  I  shudder  at  your 
appearance  !  Sweet  image  of  Thaddcus  of  Warsaw,  how  often 
has  this  almost  infantile  hand  tried  to  depict  you  in  a  Polish 
cap  and  richly  embroidered  tights  !  And  as  for  Corinthian 
Tom  in  light  blue  pantaloons  and  hcssians,  and  Jerry  Haw- 
thorn from  the  country,  can  all  the  fashion,  can  all  the  splen- 
dour of  real  life  which  these  eyes  have  subsequently  beheld, 
can  all  the  wit  I  have  heard  or  read  in  later  times,  compare 
with  your  fashion,  with  your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful 
grace,  and  sparkling  vivacious  rattle .'' 

Who  knows  .?  They  may  have  kept  those  very  books  at  the 
library  still — at  the  well-remembered  library  on  the  Pantiles, 
where  they  sell  that  delightful,  useful  Tunbridge  ware.  I  will 
go  and  see.  I  wend  my  way  to  the  Pantiles,  the  queer  little 
old-world  Pantiles,  where,  a  hundred  years  since,  so  much 
good  company  came  to  take  its  pleasure.  Is  it  possible,  that 
in  the  past  century,  gentlefolks  of  the  first  rank  (as  I  read 
lately  in  a  lecture  on  George  II  in  the  Coruhill  Magazine) 
assembled  here  and  entertained  each  other  with  gaming, 
dancing,  fiddling,  and  tea .?  There  are  fiddlers,  harpers,  and 
trumpeters  performing  at  this  moment  in  a  weak  little  old 
balcony,  but  where  is  the  fine  company  ?  Where  are  the  earls, 
duchesses,  bishops,  and  magnificent  embroidered  gamesters .'' 
A  half-dozen  of  children  and  their  nurses  are  listeninfr  to  the 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  339 

musicians  ;  an  old  lady  or  two  in  a  poke  bonnet  passes  ;  and 
for  the  rest,  I  see  but  an  uninteresting  population  of  native 
tradesmen.  As  for  the  library,  its  window  is  full  of  pictures  of 
burly  theologians,  and  their  works,  sermons,  apologues,  and  so 
forth.  Can  I  go  in  and  ask  the  young  ladies  at  the  counter 
for  Manfroiii,  or  the  One-handed  Monk,  and  Life  in  London, 
or  the  Adventures  of  Coi'ififhian  Tom,  feremiah  LLawtJiorn, 
Esqnire,  and  their  friend  Bob  Logic  "^  —  absurd.  I  turn  away 
abashed  from  the  casement  —  from  the  Pantiles  —  no  longer 
Pantiles  —  but  Parade.  I  stroll  over  the  Common  and  survey 
the  beautiful  purple  hills  around,  twinkling  with  a  thousand 
bright  villas,  which  have  sprung  up  over  this  charming  ground 
since  first  I  saw  it.  What  an  admirable  scene  of  peace  and 
plenty !  What  a  delicious  air  breathes  over  the  heath,  blows 
the  cloud-shadows  across  it,  and  murmurs  through  the  full- 
clad  trees  !  Can  the  world  show  a  land  fairer,  richer,  more 
cheerful .?  I  see  a  portion  of  it  when  I  look  up  from  the 
window  at  which  I  write.  Rut  fair  scene,  green  woods,  bright 
terraces  gleaming  in  sunshine,  and  purple  clouds  swollen  with 
summer  rain  —  nay,  the  very  pages  over  which  my  head 
bends  —  disappear  from  before  my  eyes.  They  are  looking 
backwards,  back  into  forty  years  off,  into  a  dark  room,  into  a 
little  house  hard  by  on  the  Common  here,  in  the  Bartlemytide 
holidays.  The  parents  have  gone  to  town  for  two  days  :  the 
house  is  all  his  own,  his  own  and  a  grim  old  maid-servant's, 
and  a  little  boy  is  seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  drawing-room, 
poring  over  Manfroni,  or  the  One-handed  Monk,  so  frightened 
that  he  scarcely  dares  to  turn  round. 

ON  BEING  FOUND  OUT 

ConiJulI  Mao^aziiic,  May,  1861 

At  the  close  (let  us  say)  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  when  I  was 
a  boy  at  a  private  and  preparatory  school  for  young  gentle- 
men, I  remember  the  wiseacre  of  a  .master  ordering  us  all, 
one  night,  to  march  into  a  little  garden  at  the   back   of   the 


340  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

house,  and  thence  to  proceed  one  by  one  into  a  tool-  or  hen- 
house {I  was  but  a  tender  Httle  thing  just  put  into  short 
clothes,  and  can't  exactly  say  whether  the  house  was  for  tools 
or  hens),  and  in  that  house  to  put  our  hands  into  a  sack 
which  stood  on  a  bencli,  a  candle  burning  beside  it,  I  put 
my  hand  into  the  sack.  My  hand  came  out  quite  black,  I 
went  and  joined  the  other  boys  in  the  schoolroom  ;  and  all 
their  hands  were  black  too. 

By  reason  of  my  tender  age  (and  there  are  some  critics  who, 
I  hope,  will  be  satisfied  by  my  acknowledging  that  I  am  a 
hundred  and  fifty-six  next  birthday)  I  could  not  understand 
what  was  the  meaning  of  this  night  excursion  —  this  candle, 
this  tool-house,  this  bag  of  soot.  I  think  we  little  boys  were 
taken  out  of  our  sleep  to  be  brought  to  the  ordeal.  We  came, 
then,  and  showed  our  little  hands  to  the  master ;  washed 
them  or  not  —  most  probably,  I  should  say,  not  —  and  so  went 
bewildered  back  to  bed. 

Something  had  been  stolen  in  the  school  that  day ;  and 
Mr,  Wiseacre  having  read  in  a  book  of  an  ingenious  method 
of  finding  out  a  thief  by  making  him  put  his  hand  into  a  sack 
(which,  if  guilty,  the  rogue  would  shirk  from  doing),  all  we 
boys  were  subjected  to  the  trial.  Goodness  knows  what  the 
lost  object  was,  or  who  stole  it.  We  all  had  black  hands  to 
show  to  the  master.  And  the  thief,  whoever  he  was,  was  not 
Found  Out  that  time. 

I  wonder  if  the  rascal  is  alive  —  an  elderly  scoundrel  he 
must  be  by  this  time  ;  and  a  hoary  old  hypocrite,  to  whom  an 
old  schoolfellow  presents  his  kindest  regards  —  parenthetically 
remarking  what  a  dreadful  place  that  private  school  was  :  cold, 
chilblains,  bad  dinners,  not  enough  victuals,  and  caning  awful ! 
—  Are  you  alive  still,  I  say,  you  nameless  villain,  who  escaped 
discovery  on  that  day  of  crime .''  I  hope  you  have  escaped 
often  since,  old  sinner.  Ah,  what  a  lucky  thing  it  is,  for  you 
and  me,  my  man,  that  we  are  not  found  out  in  all  our  pecca- 
dilloes ;  and  that  our  backs  can  slip  away  from  the  master  and 
the  cane ! 


WILLIAM   MAKI'.PKACK  THACKERAY  341 

Just  consider  what  life  would  be,  if  every  rogue  was  found 
out,  and  flogged  coram  popnlo !  What  a  butcher)',  what  an 
indecency,  what  an  endless  swishing  of  the  rod !  Don't  cry 
out  about  my  misanthropy.  My  good  friend  Mealymouth,  I 
will  trouble  you  to  tell  me,  do  you  go  to  church  ?  When  there, 
do  you  say,  or  do  you  not,  that  you  are  a  miserable  sinner  ? 
and  saying  so,  do  you  believe  or  disbelieve  it  ?  If  you  are  a 
M.S.,  don't  you  deserve  correction,  and  aren't  you  grateful 
if  you  are  to  be  let  off }  I  say,  again,  what  a  blessed  thing  it 
is  that  we  are  not  all  found  out ! 

Just  picture  to  yourself  everybody  who  does  wrong  being 
found  out,  and  punished  accordingly.  Fancy  all  the  boys  in 
all  the  school  being  whipped  ;  and  then  the  assistants,  and 
then  the  head  master  (Doctor  Badford  let  us  call  him).  Fancy 
the  provost-marshal  being  tied  up,  having  previously  superin- 
tended the  correction  of  the  whole  army.  After  the  young 
gentlemen  have  had  their  turn  for  the  faulty  exercises,  fancy 
Doctor  Lincolnsinn  being  taken  up  for  certain  faults  in  his 
Essay  and  Review.  After  the  clerg}-man  has  cried  his  peccavi, 
suppose  we  hoist  up  a  Bishop,  and  give  him  a  couple  of  dozen  ! 
(I  see  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Double-Gloucester  sitting  in  a  very 
uneasy  posture  on  his  right  reverend  bench.)  After  we  have 
cast  off  the  Bishop,  what  are  we  to  say  to  the  Minister  who 
appointed  him  1  My  Lord  Cinqwarden,  it  is  painful  to  have 
to  use  personal  correction  to  a  boy  of  your  age  ;  but  really  .  .  . 
Siste  tandem,  caniifcx !  The  butchery  is  too  horrible.  The 
hand  drops  powerless,  appalled  at  the  quantity  of  birch  which 
it  must  cut  and  brandish.  I  am  glad  we  are  not  all  found  out, 
I  say  again  ;  and  protest,  my  dear  brethren,  against  our  having 
our  deserts. 

To  fancy  all  men  found  out  and  punished  is  bad  enough  ; 
but  imagine  all  women  found  out  in  the  distinguished  social 
circle  in  which  you  and  I  have  the  honour  to  move.  Is  it  not 
a  mercy  that  so  many  of  these  fair  criminals  remain  unpunished 
and  undiscovered .?  There  is  Mrs.  Longbow,  who  is  for  ever 
practising,  and  who  shoots  poisoned  arrows,  too ;    when  you 


342  THE  ENGLISH   ]  AAHl.lAR  ESSAY 

meet  her  you  don't  call  her  liar,  and  charge  her  with  the 
wickedness  she  has  done,  and  is  doing.  There  is  Mrs.  Painter, 
who  passes  for  a  most  respectable  woman,  and  a  model  in 
society.  There  is  no  use  in  saying  what  you  really  know 
regarding  her  and  her  goings  on.  There  is  Diana  Hunter  — 
what  a  little  haughty  prude  it  is  ;  and  yet  ivc  know  stories 
about  her  which  are  not  altogether  edifying.  I  say  it  is  best, 
for  the  sake  of  the  good,  that  the  bad  should  not  all  be  found 
out.  A^ou  don't  want  your  children  to  know  the  history  of  that 
lady  in  the  next  box,  who  is  so  handsome,  and  whom  they 
admire  so.  Ah  me  !  what  would  life  be  if  we  were  all  found 
out,  and  punished  for  all  our  faults  1  Jack  Ketch  would  be  in 
permanence  ;  and  then  who  would  hang  Jack  Ketch  t 

They  talk  of  murderers  being  pretty  certainly  found  out. 
Psha !  I  have  heard  an  authority  awfully  competent  vow  and 
declare  that  scores  and  hundreds  of  murders  are  committed, 
and  nobody  is  the  wiser.  That  terrible  man  mentioned  one 
or  two  ways  of  committing  murder,  which  he  maintained  were 
quite  common,  and  were  scarcely  ever  found  out.  A  man,  for 
instance,  comes  home  to  his  wife,  and  .  .  .  but  I  pause  —  I 
know  that  this  Magazine  has  a  very  large  circulation.  Hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  of  thousands  —  why  not  say  a  million  of 
people  at  once  .''  —  well,  say  a  million  read  it.  And  amongst 
these  countless  readers,  I  might  be  teaching  some  monster  how 
to  make  away  with  his  wife  without  being  found  out,  some 
fiend  of  a  woman  how  to  destroy  her  dear  husband.  I  will 
not  then  tell  this  easy  and  simple  way  of  murder,  as  communi- 
cated to  me  by  a  most  respectable  party  in  the  confidence  of 
private  intercourse.  Suppose  some  gentle  reader  were  to  try 
this  most  simple  and  easy  receipt  —  it  seems  to  me  almost 
infallible  —  and  come  to  grief  in  consequence,  and  be  found 
out  and  hanged  }  Should  I  ever  pardon  myself  for  having 
been  the  means  of  doing  injury  to  a  single  one  of  our  esteemed 
subscribers  }  The  prescription  whereof  I  speak  —  that  is  to 
say  whereof  I  doiit  speak  —  shall  be  buried  in  this  bosom. 
No,  T  am  a  humane  man.     I  am  not  one  of  your  Bluebeards 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  343 

to  go  and  say  to  my  wife,  ' '  My  dear !  I  am  going  away  for  a 
few  days  to  Brighton.  Here  are  all  the  keys  of  the  house. 
You  may  open  every  door  and  closet,  except  the  one  at  the 
end  of  the  oak-room  opposite  the  fireplace,  with  the  little  bronze 
Shakspeare  on  the  mantelpiece  (or  what  not)."  I  don't  say  this 
to  a  woman  —  unless,  to  be  sure,  I  want  to  get  rid  of  her  — 
because,  after  such  a  caution,  I  know  she  '11  peep  into  the  closet. 
I  say  nothing  about  the  closet  at  all.  I  keep  the  key  in  my 
pocket,  and  a  being  whom  I  love,  but  who,  as  I  know,  has 
many  weaknesses,  out  of  harm's  way.  You  toss  up  your  head, 
dear  angel,  drub  on  the  ground  with  your  lovely  little  feet,  on 
the  table  with  your  sweet  rosy  fingers,  and  cry,  "  Oh,  sneerer ! 
You  don't  know  the  depth  of  woman's  feeling,  the  lofty  scorn 
of  all  deceit,  the  entire  absence  of  mean  curiosity  in  the  sex, 
or  never,  never  would  you  libel  us  so  !  "  Ah,  Delia  !  dear  dear 
Delia !  It  is  because  I  fancy  I  do  know  something  about  you 
(not  all,  mind  —  no,  no  ;  no  man  knows  that)  —  Ah,  my  bride, 
my  ringdove,  my  rose,  my  poppet  —  choose,  in  fact,  whatever 
name  you  like  —  l^ulbul  of  my  grove,  fountain  of  my  desert, 
sunshine  of  my  darkling  life,  and  joy  of  my  dungeoned  exist- 
ence, it  is  because  I  do  know  a  little  about  you  that  I  conclude 
to  say  nothing  of  that  private  closet,  and  keep  my  key  in  my 
pocket.  You  take  away  that  closet-key  then,  and  the  house- 
key.  You  lock  Delia  in.  You  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way 
and  gadding,  and  so  she  never  can  be  found  out. 

And  yet  by  little  strange  accidents  and  coincidences  how  we 
are  being  found  out  every  day.  You  remember  that  old  story 
of  the  Abbe  Kakatoes,  who  told  the  company  at  supper  one 
night  how  the  first  confession  he  ever  received  was  —  from  a 
murderer  let  us  say.  Presently  enters  to  supper  the  Marquis 
de  Croquemitaine.  "  Palsambleu,  abbe !  "  says  the  brilliant 
Marquis,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  ''  arc  you  here  .■'  Gentlemen 
and  ladies  !  I  was  the  abbe's  first  penitent,  and  I  made  him 
a  confession  which  I  promise  you  astonished  him." 

To  be  sure  how  queerly  things  are  found  out !  Here  is  an  in- 
stance.   Only  the  other  day  I  was  writing  in  these  Roujidabout 


344  ^rHP:  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Papers  about  a  certain  man,  whom  I  facetiously  called  Baggs, 
and  who  had  abused  me  to  my  friends,  who  of  course  told 
me.  Shortly  after  that  paper  was  published  another  friend  — 
Sacks  let  us  call  him  —  scowls  fiercely  at  me  as  I  am  sitting 
in  perfect  good-humour  at  the  club,  and  passes  on  without 
speaking.  A  cut.  A  quarrel.  Sacks  thinks  it  is  about  him 
that  I  was  writing  :  whereas,  upon  my  honour  and  conscience, 
I  never  had  him  once  in  my  mind,  and  was  pointing  my  moral 
from  quite  another  man.  But  don't  you  see,  by  this  wrath  of 
the  guilty-conscienced  Sacks,  that  he  had  been  abusing  me 
too .''  He  has  owned  himself  guilty,  never  having  been  ac- 
cused. He  has  winced  when  nobody  thouglit  of  hitting  him. 
I  did  but  put  the  cap  out,  and  madly  butting  and  chafing, 
behold  my  friend  rushes  to  put  his  head  into  it !  Never  mind. 
Sacks,  you  are  found  out ;  but  I  bear  you  no  malice,  my  man. 

And  yet  to  be  found  out,  I  know  from  my  own  experience, 
must  be  painful  and  odious,  and  cruelly  mortifying  to  the  in- 
ward vanity.  Suppose  I  am  a  poltroon,  let  us  say.  With  fierce 
moustache,  loud  talk,  plentiful  oaths,  and  an  immense  stick,  I 
keep  up  nevertheless  a  character  for  courage.  I  swear  fearfully 
at  cabmen  and  women  ;  brandish  my  bludgeon,  and  perhaps 
knock  down  a  little  man  or  two  with  it :  brag  of  the  images 
which  I  break  at  the  shooting-gallery,  and  pass  amongst  my 
friends  for  a  whiskery  fire-eater,  afraid  of  neither  man  nor 
dragon.  Ah  me !  Suppose  some  brisk  little  chap  steps  up 
and  gives  me  a  caning  in  St.  James's  Street,  with  all  the 
heads  of  my  friends  looking  out  of  all  the  club  windows.  My 
reputation  is  gone.  I  frighten  no  man  more.  My  nose  is 
pulled  by  whipper-snappers,  who  jump  up  on  a  chair  to  reach 
it.  I  am  found  out.  And  in  the  days  of  my  triumphs,  when 
people  were  yet  afraid  of  me,  and  were  taken  in  by  riiy  swag- 
ger, I  always  knew  that  I  was  a  lily-liver,  and  expected  that 
I  should  be  found  out  some  day. 

That  certainty  of  being  found  out  must  haunt  and  depress 
many  a  bold  braggadocio  spirit.  Let  us  say  it  is  a  clergyman, 
who  can  ])ump  copious   floods  of  tears  out  of  his  own  eyes 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  345 

and  those  of  his  audience.  He  thinks  to  himself,  "  I  am  but 
a  poor  swindHng  chattering  rogue.  My  bills  are  unpaid.  I 
have  jilted  several  women  whom  I  have  promised  to  marry. 
I  don't  know  whether  I  believe  what  I  preach,  and  I  know 
I  have  stolen  the  very  sermon  over  which  I  have  been  snivel- 
ling. Have  they  found  me  out?"  says  he,  as  his  head  drops 
down  on  the  cushion. 

Then  your  writer,  poet,  historian,  novelist,  or  what  not } 
The  Beacon  says  that  "Jones's  work  is  one  of  the  first 
order."  The  Lamp  declares  that  "Jones's  tragedy  surpasses 
every  work  since  the  days  of  Him  of  Avon."  The  Comet 
asserts  that  "J.'s  Life  of  Goody  Tivo-shoes  is  a  Krrj/j.a  e?  ael, 
a  noble  and  enduring  monument  to  the  fame  of  that  ad- 
mirable Englishwoman,"  and  so  forth.  But  then  Jones  knows 
that  he  has  lent  the  critic  of  the  Beacon  five  pounds  ;  that  his 
publisher  has  a  half-share  in  the  iMmp  ;  and  that  the  Comet 
comes  repeatedly  to  dine  with  him.  It  is  all  very  well.  Jones 
is  immortal  until  he  is  found  out ;  and  then  down  comes  the 
extinguisher,  and  the  immortal  is  dead  and  buried.  The  idea 
{dies  ine!)  of  discovery  must  haunt  many  a  man,  and  make 
him  uneasy,  as  the  trumpets  are  puffing  in  his  triumph. 
Brown,  who  has  a  higher  place  than  he  deser\^es,  cowers 
before  Smith,  who  has  found  him  out.  W^hat  is  a  chorus  of 
critics  shouting  "Bravo".''  —  a  public  clapping  hands  and 
flinging  garlands }  Brown  knows  that  Smith  has  found  him 
out.  Puff,  trumpets !  Wave,  banners !  Huzza,  boys,  for  the 
immortal  Brown!  "This  is  all  very  well,"  B.  thinks  (bowing 
the  while,  smiling,  laying  his  hand  to  his  heart);  "but  there 
stands  Smith  at  the  window  :  Jie  has  measured  me ;  and  some 
day  the  others  will  find  me  out  too."  It  is  a  ven,^  curious 
sensation  to  sit  by  a  man  who  has  found  you  out,  and  who 
you  know  has  found  you  out ;  or,  vice  versa,  to  sit  with  a 
man  whom  you  have  found  out.  His  talent  1  Bah  !  His  vir- 
tue 1  We  know  a  little  story  or  two  about  his  virtue,  and  he 
knows  we  know  it.  We  are  thinking  over  friend  Robinson's 
antecedents,   as   we  grin,   bow,   and   talk ;    and   we   are    both 


346  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

humbugs  together.  Robinson  a  good  fellow,  is  he  ?  You  know 
how  he  behaved  to  Hicks  ?  A  good-natured  man,  is  he  ?  Pray 
do  you  remember  that  little  story  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  black 
eye  .?  How  men  have  to  work,  to  talk,  to  smile,  to  go  to  bed, 
and  try  to  sleep,  with  this  dread  of  being  found  out  on  their 
consciences!  Bardolph,  who  has, robbed  a  church,  and  Nym, 
who  has  taken  a  purse,  go  to  their  usual  haunts,  and  smoke 
their  pipes  with  their  companions.  Mr.  Detective  Bulls-eye 
appears,  and  says,  "  Oh,  Bardolph,  I  want  you  about  that 
there  pyx  business  !  "  Mr.  Bardolph  knocks  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe,  puts  out  his  hands  to  the  little  steel  cuffs,  and  walks 
away  quite  meekly.  He  is  found  out.  He  must  go.  "  Good- 
bye, Doll  Tearsheet !  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Quickly,  ma'am !  " 
The  other  gentlemen  and  ladies  dc  la  socictc  look  on  and 
exchange  mute  adieux  with  the  departing  friends.  And  an 
assured  time  will  come  when  the  other  gentlemen  and  ladies 
will  be  found  out  too. 

What  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  provision  of  nature  it  has 
been  that,  for  the  most  part,  our  womankind  are  not  endowed 
with  the  faculty  of  finding  us  out !  They  don't  doubt,  and 
probe,  and  weigh,  and  take  your  measure.  Lay  down  this 
paper,  my  benevolent  friend  and  reader,  go  into  your  drawing- 
room  now,  and  utter  a  joke  ever  so  old,  and  I  wager  sixpence 
the  ladies  there  will  all  begin  to  laugh.  Go  to  Brown's  house, 
and  tell  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  young  ladies  what  you  think  of 
him,  and  see  what  a  welcome  you  will  get !  In  like  manner, 
let  him  come  to  your  house,  and  tell  your  good  lady  his 
candid  opinion  of  you,  and  fancy  how  she  will  receive  him  ! 
Would  you  have  your  wife  and  children  know  you  exactly  for 
what  you  are,  and  esteem  you  precisely  at  your  worth  }  If  so,  my 
friend,  you  will  live  in  a  dreary  house,  and  you  will  have  but  a 
chilly  fireside.  Do  you  suppose  the  people  round  it  don't  see 
your  homely  face  as  under  a  glamour,  and,  as  it  were,  with  a 
halo  of  love  round  it }  You  don't  fancy  you  arc,  as  you  seem 
to  them  }  No  such  thing,  my  man.  Put  away  that  monstrous 
conceit,  and  be  thankful  that  tJicy  have  not  found  you  out. 


WILLIAM   ^LVREPEACE  TILICKERAY  347 

DE  FINIBUS 

CornJiill  Magazine,  August,  1862 

When  Swift  was  in  love  with  Stella,  and  despatching  her  a 
letter  from  London  thrice  a  month,  by  the  Irish  packet,  you 
may  remember  how  he  would  begin  Letter  No.  xxiii,  we  will 
say,  on  the  very  day  when  xxii  had  been  sent  away,  stealing 
out  of  the  coffee-house  or  the  assembly  so  as  to  be  able  to 
prattle  with  his  dear ;  "'  never  letting  go  her  kind  hand,  as  it 
were,"  as  some  commentator  or  other  has  said  in  speaking 
of  the  Dean  and  his  amour.  When  Mr.  Johnson,  walking  to 
Dodsley's,  and  touching  the  posts  in  Pall  Mall  as  he  walked, 
forgot  to  pat  the  head  of  one  of  them,  he  went  back  and 
imposed  his  hands  on  it,  —  impelled  I  know  not  by  what 
superstition.  I  have  this  I  hope  not  dangerous  mania  too. 
As  soon  as  a  piece  of  work  is  out  of  hand,  and  before  going 
to  sleep,  I  like  to  begin  another ;  it  may  be  to  write  only 
half-a-dozen  lines  :  but  that  is  something  towards  Number  the 
Next.  The  printer's  boy  has  not  yet  reached  Green  Arbour 
Court  w'ith  the  copy.  Those  people  who  were  alive  half-an- 
hour  since,  Pendennis,  Clive  Newcome,  and  (what  do  you 
call  him .?  what,  was  the  name  of  the  last  hero  ?  I  remember 
now !)  Philip  P^irmin,  have  hardly  drunk  their  glass  of  wine, 
and  the  mammas  have  only  this  minute  got  the  children's 
cloaks  on,  and  have  been  bowed  out  of  my  premises  —  and 
here  I  come  back  to  the  study  again  :  tarnen  usque  recurro. 
How  lonely  it  looks  now  all  these  people  are  gone  !  My  dear 
■good  friends,  some  folk  are  utterly  tired  of  you,  and  say, 
"  What  a  poverty  of  friends  the  man  has !  He  is  always 
asking  us  to  meet  those  Pendennises,  Newcomes,  and  so 
forth.  Why  does  he  not  introduce  us  to  some  new  characters  t 
Why  is  he  not  thrilling  like  Twostars,  learned  and  profound 
like  Threestars,  exquisitely  humorous  and  human  like  Four- 
stars  .?  Why,  finally,  is  he  not  somebody  else  1  "  My  good 
people,  it  is  not  only  impossible  to  please  you  all,  but  it  is 


348  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

absurd  to  try.  The  dish  \Yhich  one  man  devours,  another 
dishkes.  Is  the  dinner  of  to-day  not  to  your  taste  ?  Let  us 
hope  to-morrow's  entertainment  will  be  more  agreeable.  .  .  . 
I  resume  my  original  subject.  What  an  odd,  pleasant,  humor- 
ous, melancholy  feeling  it  is  to  sit  in  the  study  alone  and 
quiet,  now  all  these  people  are  gone  who  have  been  boarding 
and  lodging  with  me  for  twenty  months  !  They  have  inter- 
rupted my  rest :  they  have  plagued  me  at  all  sorts  of  minutes : 
they  have  thrust  themselves  upon  me  when  I  was  ill,  or 
wished  to  be  idle,  and  I  have  growled  out  a  "  Be  hanged  to 
you,  can't  you  leave  me  alone  now  ?  "  Once  or  twice  they 
have  prevented  my  going  out  to  dinner.  Many  and  many  a 
time  they  have  prevented  my  coming  home,  because  I  knew 
they  were  there  waiting  in  the  study,  and  a  plague  take  them, 
and  I  have  left  home  and  family,  and  gone  to  dine  at  the 
Club,  and  told  nobody  where  I  went.  They  have  bored  me, 
those  people.  They  have  plagued  me  at  all  sorts  of  uncom- 
fortable hours.  They  have  made  such  a  disturbance  in  my 
mind  and  house,  that  sometimes  I  have  hardly  known  what 
was  going  on  in  my  family  and  scarcely  have  heard  what  my 
neighbour  said  to  me.  They  are  gone  at  last,  and  you  would 
expect  me  to  be  at  ease  ?  Far  from  it.  I  should  almost  be 
glad  if  Woolcomb  would  walk  in  and  talk  to  me  ;  or  Twysden 
reappear,  take  his  place  in  that  chair  opposite  me,  and  begin 
one  of  his  tremendous  stories. 

Madmen,  you  know,  see  visions,  hold  conversations  with, 
even  draw  the  likeness  of,  people  invisible  to  you  and  me.  Is 
this  making  of  people  out  of  fancy  madness  ?  and  are  novel- 
writers  at  all  entitled  to  strait-waistcoats  .''  I  often  forget  peo- 
ple's names  in  life  ;  and  in  my  own  stories  contritely  own  that 
I  make  dreadful  blunders  regarding  them  ;  but  I  declare,  my 
dear  sir,  with  respect  to  the  personages  introduced  into  your 
humble  servant's  fables,  I  know  the  people  utterly  —  I  know 
the  sound  of  their  voices.  A  gentleman  came  in  to  see  me 
the  other  day,  who  was  so  like  the  picture  of  Philip  Firmin 
in  IVIr,  Walker's  charming  drawings  in  the  Cornhill  J\[ao;arjine 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  349 

that  he  was  quite  a  curiosity  to  me.  The  same  eyes,  beard, 
shoulders,  just  as  you  have  seen  them  from  month  to  month. 
Well,  he  is  not  like  the  Philip  Plrmin  in  my  mind.  Asleep, 
asleep  in  the  grave,  lies  the  bold,  the  generous,  the  reckless, 
the  tender-hearted  creature  whom  I  have  made  to  pass  through 
those  adventures  which  have  just  been  brought  to  an  end.  It 
is  years  since  I  heard  the  laughter  ringing,  or  saw  the  bright 
blue  e)-es.  When  I  knew  him  both  were  young.  I  become 
young  as  I  think  of  him.  And  this  morning  he  was  alive 
again  in  this  room,  ready  to  laugh,  to  fight,  to  weep.  As  I 
write,  do  you  know,  it  is  the  grey  of  evening ;  the  house  is 
quiet ;  everybody  is  out ;  the  room  is  getting  a  little  dark,  and 
I  look  rather  wistfully  up  from  the  paper  with  perhaps  ever  so 
little  fancy  that  HP:  MAY  COME  IN.  No?  No  move- 
ment. No  grey  shade,  growing  more  palpable,  out  of  which 
at  last  look  the  well-known  eyes.  No,  the  printer  came  and 
took  him  away  with  the  last  page  of  the  proofs.  And  with 
the  printer's  boy  did  the  whole  cortege  of  ghosts  flit  away, 
invisible !  Ha !  stay !  what  is  this  ?  Angels  and  ministers 
of  grace  !  The  door  opens,  and  a  dark  form  —  enters,  bearing 
a  black  —  a  black  suit  of  clothes.  It  is  John.  He  says  it  is 
time  to  dress  for  dinner. 


Every  man  who  has  had  his  German  tutor,  and  has  been 
coached  through  the  famous  Faust  of  Goethe  (thou  wert 
my  instructor,  good  old  Weissenborn,  and  these  eyes  beheld 
the  great  master  himself  in  dear  little  Weimar  town  !)  has 
read  those  charming  verses  which  are  prefixed  to  the  drama, 
in  which  the  poet  reverts  to  the  time  when  his  work  was  first 
composed,  and  recalls  the  friends  now  departed,  who  once 
listened  to  his  song.  The  dear  shadows  rise  up  around  him, 
he  says  ;  he  lives  in  the  past  again.  It  is  to-day  which  appears 
vague  and  visionary.  We  humbler  writers  cannot  create  P'austs, 
or  raise  up  monumental  works  that  shall  endure  for  all  ages  ; 
but  our  books  are  diaries,  in  which  our  own  feelings  must  of 


350  THE  ENGLISH    FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

necessity  be  set  down.  As  we  look  to  the  page  written  last 
month,  or  ten  years  ago,  we  remember  the  day  and  its  events  ; 
the  child  ill,  mayhap,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  the  doubts 
and  fears  which  racked  the  brain  as  it  still  pursued  its  work ; 
the  dear  old  friend  who  read  the  commencement  of  the  tale, 
and  whose  gentle  hand  shall  be  laid  in  ours  no  more.  I  own 
for  my  part  that,  in  reading  pages  which  this  hand  penned 
formerly,  I  often  lose  sight  of  the  text  under  my  eyes.  It  is 
not  the  words  I  see ;  but  that  past  day ;  that  bygone  page  of 
life's  history  ;  that  tragedy,  comedy  it  may  be,  which  our  little 
home-company  was  enacting ;  that  merry-making  which  we 
shared ;  that  funeral  which  we  followed ;  that  bitter  bitter 
grief  which  we  buried. 

And,  such  being  the  state  of  my  mind,  I  pray  gentle  read- 
ers to  deal  kindly  with  their  humble  servant's  manifold  short- 
comings, blunders,  and  slips  of  memory.  As  sure  as  I  read 
a  page  of  my  own  composition,  I  find  a  fault  or  two,  half-a- 
dozen.  Jones  is  called  Brown.  Brown,  who  is  dead,  is  brought 
to  life.  Aghast,  and  months  after  the  number  was  printed,  I 
saw  that  I  had  called  Philip  Mrmin,  Clive  Newcome.  Now 
Clive  Newcome  is  the  hero  of  another  story  by  the  reader's 
most  obedient  writer.  The  two  men  are  as  different  in  my 
mind's  eye,  as  —  as  Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Disraeli  let  us 
say.  But  there  is  that  blunder  at  page  990,  line  ']6,  volume  84 
of  the  CornJiill  Magazine,  and  it  is  past  mending  ;  and  I  wish 
in  my  life  I  had  made  no  worse  blunders  or  errors  than  that 
which  is  hereby  acknowledged. 

Another  Finis  written.  Another  mile-stone  passed  on  this 
journey  from  birth  to  the  next  world  !  Sure  it  is  a  subject  for 
solemn  cogitation.  Shall  we  continue  this  story-telling  business 
and  be  voluble  to  the  end  of  our  age  !  Will  it  not  be  presently 
time,  O  prattler,  to  hold  your  tongue,  and  let  younger  people 
speak  !  I  have  a  friend,  a  painter,  who,  like  other  persons 
who  shall  be  nameless,  is  growing  old.  He  has  never  painted 
with  such  laborious  finish  as  his  works  now  show.  This  mas- 
ter is  still  the  most  humble  and  diligent  of  scholars.    Of  Art, 


WILLIAM  MAKEPKACE  THACKERAY  351 

his  mistress,  he  is  ahvays  an  eager,  reverent  pupil.  In  his 
calHng,  in  yours,  in  mine,  industry  and  humihty  will  help  and 
comfort  us.  A  word  with  you.  In  a  pretty  large  experience 
I  have  not  found  the  men  who  write  books  superior  in  wit  or 
learning  to  those  who  don't  write  at  all.  In  regard  of  mere 
information,  non-writers  must  often  be  superior  to  writers. 
You  don't  expect  a  lawyer  in  full  practice  to  be  conversant 
with  all  kinds  of  literature  ;  he  is  too  busy  with  his  law  ;  and 
so  a  writer  is  commonly  too  busy  with  his  own  books  to  be 
able  to  bestow  attention  on  the  works  of  other  people.  After 
a  day's  work  (in  which  I  have  been  depicting,  let  us  say,  the 
agonies  of  Louisa  on  parting  with  the  Captain,  or  the  atro- 
cious beha\'ioLU"  of  the  wicked  Marquis  to  Lady  Emil})  I  march 
to  the  Club,  proposing  to  improve  my  mind  and  keep  myself 
"posted  up,"  as  the  xAmericans  phrase  it,  in  the  literature  of 
the  day.  And  what  happens  .''  Given  a  walk  after  luncheon, 
a  pleasing  book,  and  a  most  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the  fire, 
and  you  know  the  rest.  A  doze  ensues.  Pleasing  book  drops 
suddenly,  is  picked  up  once  with  an  air  of  some  confusion, 
is  laid  presently  softly  in  lap  :  head  falls  on  comfortable  arm- 
chair cushion  :  eyes  close  :  soft  nasal  music  is  heard.  Am  I 
telling  Club  secrets  ?  Of  afternoons,  after  lunch,  I  say,  scores 
of  sensible  fogies  have  a  doze.  Perhaps  I  have  fallen  asleep 
over  that  very  book  to  which  "  Finis  "  has  just  been  written. 
"And  if  the  writer  sleeps,  what  happens  to  the  readers.-'" 
says  Jones,  coming  down  upon  me  with  his  lightning  wit. 
What  ?  you  did  sleep  over  it .''  And  a  very  good  thing  too. 
These  eyes  have  more  than  once  seen  a  friend  dozing  over 
pages  which  this  hand  has  written.  There  is  a  vignette  some- 
where in  one  of  my  books  of  a  friend  so  caught  napping  with 
Pende7inis,  or  TJic  Newcomcs,  in  his  lap ;  and  if  a  writer 
can  give  you  a  sweet,  soothing,  harmless  sleep,  has  he  not 
done  you  a  kindness .''  So  is  the  author  who  excites  and  in- 
terests you  worthy  of  your  thanks  and  benedictions.  I  am 
troubled  with  fever  and  ague,  that  seize  me  at  odd  intervals 
and  prostrate  me  for  a  day.    There  is  cold  fit,  for  which,  I  am 


JD- 


THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 


thankful  to  say,  hot  brandy-and-watcr  is  prescribed  ;  and  this 
induces  hot  fit,  and  so  on.  In  one  or  two  of  these  fits  I  have 
read  novels  with  the  most  fearful  contentment  of  mind.  Once 
on  the  Mississippi,  it  was  my  dearly  beloved  Jacob  Fait hf id  : 
once,  at  Frankfort  O.  M.,  the  delightful  TY;/^/  Ans  Aprcs 
of  Monsieur  Dumas  :  once,  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  thrilling 
Woiiiaji  ill  WJdte  :  and  these  books  gave  me  amusement 
from  morning  till  sunset.  I  remember  those  ague  fits  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  and  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole  day  in 
bed,  and  a  good  novel  for  a  companion  !  No  cares  :  no  re- 
morse about  idleness  :  no  visitors  :  and  the  Woman  in  White 
or  the  Chevalier  d'Artagnan  to  tell  me  stories  from  dawn  to 
night!  "Please,  ma'am,  my  master's  compliments,  and  can 
he  have  the  third  volume  ?  "  (This  message  was  sent  to  an 
astonished  friend  and  neighbour  who  lent  me,  volume  by 
volume,  the  W.  in  JV.)  How  do  you  like  your  novels  ?  I  like 
mine  strong,  "  hot  with,"  and  no  mistake  :  no  love-making :  no 
observations  about  society  :  little  dialogue,  except  where  the  char- 
acters are  bullying  each  other  :  plenty  of  fighting :  and  a  vil- 
lain in  the  cupboard,  who  is  to  suffer  tortures  just  before  F'inis. 
I  don't  like  your  melancholy  F^inis.  I  never  read  the  history 
of  a  consumptive  heroine  twice.  If  I  might  give  a  short  hint 
to  an  impartial  writer  (as  the  Exajiniicr  used  to  say  in  old 
days),  it  would  be  to  act,  not  a  la  mode  le  pays  de  Pole  (I 
think  that  was  the  phraseology)  but  always  to  give  quarter. 
In  the  story  of  Philip,  just  come  to  an  end,  I  have  the  per- 
mission of  the  author  to  state  that  he  was  going  to  drown  the 
two  villains  of  the  piece  — a  certain  Doctor  F and  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  T.  H on  board  the  President,   or  some   other 

tragic  ship  —  but  you  see  I  relented.  I  pictured  to  myself 
Firmin's  ghastly  face  amid  the  crowd  of  shuddering  people  on 
that  reeling  deck  in  the  lonely  ocean  and  thought,  "  Thou 
ghastly  lying  wretch,  thou  shalt  not  be  drowned  ;  thou  shalt 
have  a  fever  only ;  a  knowledge  of  thy  danger ;  and  a  chance 
—  ever  so  small  a  chance  —  of  repentance."  I  wonder  whether 
he  did  repent  when  he  found  himself  in  the  yellow-fever,  in 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  353 

Virginia  ?  The  probability  is  he  fancied  that  his  son  had  in- 
jured him  very  much,  and  forgave  him  on  his  death-bed.  Do 
you  imagine  there  is  a  great  deal  of  genuine  right-down  re- 
morse in  the  world  ?  Don't  people  rather  find  excuses  which 
make  their  minds  easy ;  endeavour  to  prove  to  themselves  that 
they  have  been  lamentably  belied  and  misunderstood  ;  and  try 
and  forgive  the  persecutors  who  ivill  present  that  bill  when  it 
is  due  ;  and  not  bear  malice  against  the  cruel  ruffian  who  takes 
them  to  the  police-office  for  stealing  the  spoons  ?  Years  ago 
I  had  a  quarrel  with  a  certain  well-known  person  (I  believed 
a  statement  regarding  him  which  his  friends  imparted  to  me, 
and  which  turned  out  to  be  quite  incorrect).  To  his  dying  day 
that  cjuarrel  was  never  quite  made  up.  I  said  to  his  brother, 
"  Why  is  your  brother's  soul  still  dark  against  me  }  It  is  I 
who  ought  to  be  angry  and  unforgiving :  for  I  was  in  the 
wrong."  In  the  region  which  they  now  inhabit  (for  P"inis  has 
been  set  to  the  volumes  of  the  lives  of  both  here  below),  if 
they  take  any  cognisance  of  our  squabbles,  and  tittle-tattles, 
and  gossips  on  earth  here,  I  hope  they  admit  that  my  little 
error  was  not  of  a  nature  unpardonable.  If  you  have  ne\"er 
committed  a  worse,  my  good  sir,  surely  the  score  against  30U 
will  not  be  heavy.  Ha,  dilcctissimi  fratrcs\  It  is  in  regard 
of  sins  not  found  out  that  we  may  say  or  sing  (in  an  under- 
tone in  a  most  penitent  and  lugubrious  minor  key),  "  Miserere 
nobis  miseris  peccatoribus." 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  v.hich  novel-writers  not 
seldom  perpetrate,  is  the  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or  tall-talking, 
against  which,  for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up  a  special  libera  inc. 
This  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses,  critics,  ser- 
moners,  and  instructors  of  young  or  old  people.  Nay  (for  I 
am  making  a  clean  breast,  and  liberating  my  soul),  perhaps 
of  all  the  novel-spinners  now  extant,  the  present  speaker  is 
the  most  addicted  to  preaching.  Does  he  not  stop  perpetually 
in  his  story  and  begin  to  preach  to  you  }  When  he  ought  to 
be  engaged  with  business,  is  he  not  for  ever  taking  the  Muse 
by  the   sleeve,   and   plaguing  her   with    some   of  his   cynical 


354  iniC  KNGLISII   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

sermons  ?  I  cry  peccavi  loudly  and  heartily.  I  tell  you  I  would 
like  to  be  able  to  write  a  story  which  should  show  no  egotism 
whatever  —  in  which  there  should  be  no  reflections,  no  cyni- 
cism, no  vulgarity  (and  so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other 
page,  a  villain,  a  battle,  a  mystery  in  every  chapter.  I  should 
like  to  be  able  to  feed  a  reader  so  spicily  as  to  leave  him  hun- 
gering and  thirsting  for  more  at  the  end  of  every  monthly  meal. 
Alexandre  Dumas  describes  himself,  when  inventing  the 
plan  of  a  work,  as  lying  silent  on  his  back  for  two  whole  days 
on  the  deck  of  a  yacht  in  a  Mediterranean  port.  At  the  end 
of  the  two  days  he  arose  and  called  for  dinner.  In  those  two 
days  he  had  built  his  plot.  He  had  moulded  a  mighty  clay, 
to.  be  cast  presently  in  perennial  brass.  The  chapters,  the 
characters,  the  incidents,  the  combinations  were  all  arranged 
in  the  artist's  brain  ere  he  set  a  pen  to  paper.  My  Pegasus 
won't  fly,  so  as  to  let  me  survey  the  field  below  me.  He  has 
no  wings,  he  is  blind  of  one  eye  certainly ;  he  is  restive,  stub- 
born, slow  ;  crops  a  hedge  when  he  ought  to  be  galloping,  or 
gallops  when  he  ought  to  be  quiet.  He  never  will  show  off 
when  I  want  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  at  a  pace  which  sur- 
prises me.  Sometimes,  when  I  most  wish  him  to  make  the 
running,  the  brute  turns  restive,  and  I  am  obliged  to  let  him 
take  his  own  time.  I  wonder  do  other  novel-writers  experience 
this  fatalism  .?  They  vuist  go  a  certain  way,  in  spite  of  them- 
selves. I  have  been  surprised  at  the  observations  made  by 
some  of  my  characters.  It  seems  as  if  an  occult  Power  was 
moving  the  pen.  The  personage  does  or  says  something,  and 
I  ask,  How  the  dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of  that }  Every 
man  has  remarked  in  dreams,  the  vast  dramatic  power  which 
is  sometimes  evinced  ;  I  won't  say  the  surprising  power,  for 
nothing  does  surprise  you  in  dreams.  But  those  strange  char- 
acters you  meet  make  instant  observations  of  which  you  never 
can  have  thought  previously.  In  like  manner,  the  imagination 
foretells  things.  We  spake  anon  of  the  inflated  style  of  some 
writers.  What  also  if  there  is  an  afflatcd  style, — when  a  writer 
is  like  a  Pythoness  on  her  oracle  tripod,  and  mighty  words, 


WILL  [AM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  355 

words  which  he  cannot  help,  come  blowing,  and  bellowing,  and 
whistling,  and  moaning  through  the  speaking  pipes  of  his 
bodily  organ  ?  I  have  told  you  it  was  a  very  queer  shock  to 
me  the  other  day  when,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  in  his 
hand,  the  artist's  (not  my)  Philip  Firmin  walked  into  this 
room,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite.  In  the  novel  of 
Pen  dam  is,  written  ten  years  ago,  there  is  an  account  of  a 
certain  Costigan,  whom  I  had  invented  (as  I  suppose  authors 
invent  their  personages  out  of  scraps,  heel-taps,  odds  and  ends 
of  characters).  I  was  smoking  in  a  tavern  parlour  one  night  — 
and  this  Costigan  came  into  the  room  alive  —  the  very  man  : 
—  the  most  remarkable  resemblance  of  the  printed  sketches 
of  the  man,  of  the  rude  drawings  in  w^hich  I  had  depicted 
him.  He  had  the  same  little  coat,  the  same  battered  hat, 
cocked  on  one  eye,  the  same  twinkle  in  that  eye.  "  Sir," 
said  I,  knowing  him  to  be  an  old  friend  whom  I  had  met  in 
unknown  regions,  "  sir,"  I  said,  "'  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of 
brandy-and-water .?  "  "^  Bcdad,  yc  may,''  says  he,  '''and  I'll 
sing  ye  a  song  tn!'  Of  course  he  spoke  with  an  Irish  brogue. 
Of  course  he  had  been  in  the  army.  In  ten  minutes  he  pulled 
out  an  Army  Agent's  account,  whereon  his  name  was  written. 
A  few  months  after  we  read  of  him  in  a  police-court.  How 
had  I  come  to  know  him,  to  divine  him  }  Nothing  shall  con- 
vince me  that  I  have  not  seen  that  man  in  the  world  of  spirits. 
In  the  world  of  spirits  and  water  I  know  I  did  :  but  that  is  a 
mere  quibble  of  words.  I  was  not  surprised  when  he  spoke  in 
an  Irish  brogue.  I  had  had  cognisance  of  him  before  some- 
how. Who  has  not  felt  that  little  shock  which  arises  when  a 
person,  a  place,  some  words  in  a  book  (there  is  always  a  collo- 
cation) present  themselves  to  you,  and  you  know  that  }'ou  have 
before  met  the  same  person,  words,  scene,  and  so  forth  } 

They  used  to  call  the  good  Sir  Walter  the  "  Wizard  of  the 
North."  What  if  some  writer  should  appear  who  can  write  so 
eneJiantingly  that  he  shall  be  able  to  call  into  actual  life  the 
people  whom  he  invents  1  What  if  Mignon,  and  Margaret, 
and   Goetz   von   Berlichingen  are  alive  now  (though    I   don't 


356  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR  ESSAY 

say  they  arc  visible),  and  Dugald  Dalgctty  and  Ivanhoe  were 
to  step  in  at  that  open  window  by  the  httle  garden  yonder  ? 
Suppose  Uncas  and  our  noble  old  Leather-stocking  were  to 
glide  silently  in  ?  Suppose  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis  should 
enter  with  a  noiseless  swagger,  curling  their  moustaches  ? 
And  dearest  Amelia  Booth,  on  Uncle  Toby's  arm  ;  and  Tittle- 
bat Titmouse,  with  his  hair  dyed  green  ;  and  all  the  Crummies 
company  of  comedians,  with  the  Gil  Bias  troop ;  and  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley ;  and  the  greatest  of  all  crazy  gentlemen,  the  Knight 
of  La  Mancha,  with  his  blessed  squire  ?  I  say  to  you,  I  look 
rather  wistfully  towards  the  window,  musing  upon  these  people. 
Were  any  of  them  to  enter,  I  think  I  should  not  be  very  much 
frightened.  Dear  old  friends,  what  pleasant  hours  I  have  had 
with  them  !  We  do  not  see  each  other  very  often,  but  when 
we  do,  we  are  ever  happy  to  meet.  I  had  a  capital  half-hour 
with  Jacob  Faithful  last  night ;  when  the  last  sheet  was  cor- 
rected, when  "  Finis,"  had  been  written,  and  the  printer's  boy, 
with  the  copy,  was  safe  in  Green  Arbour  Court. 

So  you  are  gone,  little  printer's  boy,  with  the  last  scratches 
and  corrections  on  the  proof,  and  a  fine  flourish  by  way  of 
Finis  at  the  story's  end.  The  last  corrections  .''  I  say  those 
last  corrections  seem  never  to  be  finished.  A  plague  upon  the 
weeds !  Every  day,  when  I  walk  in  my  own  little  literary 
garden-plot,  I  spy  some,  and  should  like  to  have  a  spud,  and 
root  them  out.  Those  idle  words,  neighbour,  are  past  remedy. 
That  turning  back  to  the  old  pages  produces  anything  but  ela- 
tion of  mind.  Would  you  not  pay  a  pretty  fine  to  be  able  to 
cancel  some  of  them  ?  Oh,  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull  old 
pages  !•  Oh,  the  cares,  the  cmmi,  the  squabbles,  the  repetitions, 
the  old  conversations  over  and  over  again.  But  now  and  again 
a  kind  thought  is  recalled,  and  now  and  again  a  dear  memory. 
Yet  a  few  chapters  more,  and  then  the  last  :  after  which, 
behold  Finis  itself  come  to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite  begun. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 

WALKING  TOURS 

Cor/!/u7I  j\fdi;azi/!e,  June,  1S76 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  a  walking  tour,  as  some  would 
have  us  fancy,  is  merely  a  better  or  worse  way  of  seeing  the 
country.  There  are  many  ways  of  seeing  landscape  quite  as 
good  ;  and  none  more  vivid,  in  spite  of  canting  dilettantes, 
than  from  a  railway  train.  But  landscape  on  a  walking  tour  is 
quite  accessory.  He  who  is  indeed  of  the  brotherhood  does 
not  voyage  in  quest  of  the  picturesque,  but  of  certain  jolly 
humours  —  of  the  hope  and  spirit  with  which  the  march  begins 
at  morning,  and  the  peace  and  spiritual  repletion  of  the  eve- 
ning's rest.  He  cannot  tell  whether  he  puts  his  knapsack  on, 
or  takes  it  off,  with  more  delight.  The  excitement  of  the 
departure-  puts  him  in  key  for  that  of  the  arrival.  Whatever 
he  does  is  not  only  a  reward  in  itself,  but  will  be  further  re- 
warded in  the  sequel ;  and  so  pleasure  leads  on  to  pleasure  in 
an  endless  chain.  It  is  this  that  so  few  can  understand  ;  they 
will  either  be  always  lounging  or  always  at  five  miles  an  hour ; 
they  do  not  play  off  the  one  against  the  other,  prepare  all  day 
for  the  evening,  and  all  evening  for  the  next  day.  And,  above 
all,  it  is  here  that  your  overwalker  fails  of  comprehension. 
His  heart  rises  against  those  who  drink  their  curacoa  in  liqueur 
glasses,  when  he  himself  can  swill  it  in  a  brown  John.  He  will 
not  believe  that  the  flavour  is  more  delicate  in  the  smaller  dose. 
He  will  not  believe  that  to  walk  this  unconscionable  distance 
is  merely  to  stupefy  and  brutalise  himself,  and  come  to  his 
inn,  at  night,  with  a  sort  of  frost  on  his  five  wits,  and  a  star- 
less night  of  darkness  in  his  spirit.  Not  for  him  the  mild 
luminous  evening  of  the  temperate  walker !     He  has  nothing 

357 


358  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

left  of  man  but  a  physical  need  for  bedtime  and  a  double 
night-cap ;  and  even  his  pipe,  if  he  be  a  smoker,  will  be  savour- 
less and  disenchanted.  It  is  the  fate  of  such  an  one  to  take 
twice  as  much  trouble  as  is  needed  to  obtain  happiness,  and 
miss  the  happiness  in  the  end  ;  he  is  the  man  of  the  proverb, 
in  short,  who  goes  further  and  fares  worse. 

Now,  to  be  properly  enjoyed,  a  walking  tour  should  be  gone 
upon  alone.  If  you  go  in  a  company,  or  even  in  pairs,  it  is  no 
longer  a  walking  tour  in  anything  but  name  ;  it  is  something 
else  and  more  in  the  nature  of  a  picnic.  A  walking  tour 
should  be  gone  upon  alone,  because  freedom  is  of  the  essence  ; 
because  you  should  be  able  to  stop  and  go  on,  and  follow  this 
way  or  that,  as  the  freak  takes  you  ;  and  because  you  must 
have  your  own  pace,  and  neither  trot  alongside  a  champion 
walker,  nor  mince  in  time  with  a  girl.  And  then  you  must 
be  open  to  all  impressions  and  let  your  thoughts  take  colour 
from  what  you  see.  You  should  be  as  a  pipe  for  any  wind  to 
play  upon,  "  I  cannot  see  the  wit,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  of  walking 
and  talking  at  the  same  time.  When  I  am  in  the  country,  I 
wish  to  vegetate  like  the  country," — which  is  the  gist  of  all 
that  can  be  said  upon  the  matter.  There  should  be  no  cackle 
of  voices  at  your  elbow,  to  jar  on  the  meditative  silence  of  the 
morning.  And  so  long  as  a  man  is  reasoning  he  cannot  sur- 
render himself  to  that  fine  intoxication  that  comes  of  much 
motion  in  the  open  air,  that  begins  in  a  sort  of  dazzle  and 
sluggishness  of  the  brain,  and  ends  in  a  peace  that  passes 
comprehension. 

During  the  first  day  or  so  of  any  tour  there  are  moments 
of  bitterness,  when  the  traveller  feels  more  than  coldly  towards 
his  knapsack,  when  he  is  half  in  a  mind  to  throw  it  bodily 
over  the  hedge  and,  like  Christian  on  a  similar  occasion,  "give 
three  leaps  and  go  on  singing."  And  yet  it  soon  acquires  a 
property  of  easiness.  It  becomes  magnetic ;  the  spirit  of  the 
journey  enters  into  it.  And  no  sooner  have  you  passed  the 
straps  over  your  shoulder  than  the  lees  of  sleep  are  cleared 
from  you,  you  pull  yourself  together  with  a  shake,  and  fall  at 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  359 

once  into  your  stride.  And  surely,  of  all  possible  moods,  this, 
in  which  a  man  takes  the  road,  is  the  best.  Of  course,  if  he 
zvill  keep  thinking  of  his  anxieties,  if  he  zvill  open  the  mer- 
chant Abudah's  chest  and  walk  arm  in  arm  with  the  hag  — 
why,  wherever  he  is,  and  whether  he  walk  fast  or  slow,  the 
chances  are  that  he  will  not  be  happy.  And  so  much  the 
more  shame  to  himself  !  There  are  perhaps  thirty  men  setting 
forth  at  that  same  hour,  and  I  would  lay  a  large  wager  there 
is  not  another  dull  face  among  the  thirty.  It  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  follow,  in  a  coat  of  darkness,  one  after  another  of 
these  wayfarers,  some  summer  morning,  for  the  first  few  miles 
upon  the  road.  This  one,  who  walks  fast,  with  a  keen  look 
in  his  eyes,  is  all  concentrated  in  his  own  mind  ;  he  is  up  at 
his  loom,  weaving  and  weaving,  to  set  the  landscape  to  words. 
This  one  peers  about,  as  he  goes,  among  the  grasses  ;  he  waits 
by  the  canal  to  watch  the  dragon-flies  ;  he  leans  on  the  gate 
of  the  pasture,  and  cannot  look  enough  upon  the  complacent 
kine.  And  here  comes  another,  talking,  laughing,  and  ges- 
ticulating to  himself.  His  face  changes  from  time  to  time,  as 
indignation  flashes  from  his  eyes  or  anger  clouds  his  forehead. 
He  is  composing  articles,  delivering  orations,  and  conducting 
the  most  impassioned  interviews,  by  the  way.  A  little  farther 
on,  and  it  is  as  like  as  not  he  will  begin  to  sing.  And  well 
for  him,  supposing  him  to  be  no  great  master  in  that  art,  if 
he  stumble  across  no  stolid  peasant  at  a  corner ;  for  on  such 
an  occasion,  I  scarcely  know  which  is  the  more  troubled,  or 
whether  it  is  worse  to  suffer  the  confusion  of  your  troubadour, 
or  the  unfeigned  alarm  of  your  clown.  A  sedentary  popula- 
tion, accustomed,  besides,  to  the  strange  mechanical  bearing 
of  the  common  tramp,  can  in  no  wise  explain  to  itself  the 
gaiety  of  these  passers-by.  I  knew  one  man  who  was  arrested 
as  a  runaway  lunatic,  because,  although  a  full-grown  person 
with  a  red  beard,  he  skipped  as  he  went  like  a  child.  And 
you  would  be  astonished  if  I  were  to  tell  you  all  the  grave 
and  learned  heads  who  have  confessed  to  me  that,  when  on 
walking  tours,  they  sang  —  and  sang  very  ill  —  and  had  a  pair 


36o  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  red  ears  when,  as  described  above,  the  inauspicious  peasant 
plumped  into  their  arms  from  round  a  corner.  And  here, 
lest  you  should  think  I  am  exaggerating,  is  Hazlitt's  own 
confession,  from  his  essay  On  Going-  a  Journey,  which  is  so 
good  that  there  should  be  a  tax  levied  on  all  who  have  not 
read  it : 

"  Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  head,"  says  he,  "and 
the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road  before  me,  and 
a  three  hours'  march  to  dinner ^ — and  then  to  thinking!  It 
is  hard  if  I  cannot  start  some  game  on  these  lone  heaths. 
I  laugh,  I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy." 

Bravo  !  After  that  adventure  of  my  friend  with  the  police- 
man, you  would  not  have  cared,  would  you,  to  publish  that  in 
the  first  person  }  But  we  have  no  bravery  nowadays,  and, 
even  in  books,  must  all  pretend  to  be  as  dull  and  foolish  as 
our  neighbours.  It  was  not  so  with  Hazlitt.  And  notice  how 
learned  he  is  (as,  indeed,  throughout  the  essay)  in  the  theory 
of  walking  tours.  He  is  none  of  your  athletic  men  in  purple 
stockings,  who  walk  their  fifty  miles  a  day :  three  hours' 
march  is  his  ideal.  And  then  he  must  have  a  winding  road, 
the  epicure ! 

Yet  there  is  one  thing  I  object  to  in  these  words  of  his, 
one  thing  in  the  great  master's  practice  that  seems  to  me  not 
wholly  wise.  I  do  not  approve  of  that  leaping  and  running. 
Both  of  these  hurry  the  respiration  ;  they  both  shake  up  the 
brain  out  of  its  glorious  open-air  confusion  ;  and  they  both 
break  the  pace.  Uneven  walking  is  not  so  agreeable  to  the 
body,  and  it  distracts  and  irritates  the  mind.  Whereas,  when 
once  you  have  fallen  into  an  equable  stride,  it  requires  no  con- 
scious thought  from  you  to  keep  it  up,  and  yet  it  prevents  you 
from  thinking  earnestly  of  anything  else.  Like  knitting,  like 
the  work  of  a  copying  clerk,  it  gradually  neutralises  and  sets 
to  sleep  the  serious  activity  of  the  mind.  We  can  think  of 
this  or  that,  lightly  and  laughingly,  as  a  child  tliinks,  or  as  we 
think  in  a  morning  doze ;  we  can  make  puns  or  puzzle  out 
acrostics,  and  trifle  in  a  thousand  ways  with  words  and  rhymes; 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  361 

but  when  it  comes  to  honest  work,  when  we  come  to  gather 
ourselves  together  for  an  effort,  we  may  sound  the  trumpet  as 
loud  and  long  as  we  please  ;  the  great  barons  of  the  mind  will 
not  rally  to  the  standard,  but  sit,  each  one,  at  home,  warming 
his  hands  over  his  own  fire  and  brooding  on  his  own  private 
thought ! 

In  the  course  of  a  da}-'s  walk,  you  see,  there  is  much 
variance  in  the  mood.  From  the  exhilaration  of  the  start,  to 
the  happy  phlegm  of  the  arrival,  the  change  is  certainly  great. 
As  the  day  goes  on,  the  traveller  moves  from  the  one  extreme 
towards  the  other.  He  becomes  more  and  more  incorporated 
with  the  material  landscape,  and  the  open-air  drunkenness 
grows  upon  him  with  great  strides,  until  he  posts  along  the 
road,  and  sees  everything  about  him,  as  in  a  cheerful  dream. 
The  first  is  certainly  brighter,  but  the  second  stage  is  the  more 
peaceful.  A  man  does  not  make  so  many  articles  towards  the 
end,  nor  does  he  laugh  aloud  ;  but  the  purely  animal  pleasures, 
the  sense  of  physical  wellbeing,  the  delight  of  every  inhalation, 
of  every  time  the  muscles  tighten  down  the  thigh,  console  him 
for  the  absence  of  the  others,  and  bring  him  to  his  destination 
still  content. 

Nor  must  I  iorget  to  say  a  word  on  bivouacs.  You  come 
to  a  milestone  on  a  hill,  or  some  place  where  deep  ways  meet 
under  trees  ;  and  off  goes  the  knapsack,  and  down  you  sit  to 
smoke  a  pipe  in  the  shade.  You  sink  into  yourself,  and  the 
Ijirds  come  round  and  look  at  you  ;  and  }our  smoke  dissipates 
upon  the  afternoon  under  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  ;  and  the 
sun  lies  warm  upon  your  feet,  and  the  cool  air  visits  your  neck 
and  turns  aside  your  open  shirt.  If  you  are  not  happy,  you 
must  have  an  evil  conscience.  You  may  dally  as  long  as  you 
like  by  the  roadside.  It  is  almost  as  if  the  millennium  were 
arrived,  when  we  shall  throw  our  clocks  and  watches  over  the 
house-top,  and  remember  time  and  seasons  no  more.  Not  to 
keep  hours  for  a  lifetime  is,  I  was  going  to  say,  to  live  for 
ever.  You  have  no  idea,  unless  you  have  tried  it,  how  endlessly 
long  is  a  summer's  day,  that  you  measure  out  only  by  hunger, 


362  THE  ENGLISH   EAMHJAR  ESSAY 

and  bring  to  an  end  only  when  you  are  drowsy.  1  know  a 
village  where  there  are  hardly  any  ck^eks,  where  no  one  knows 
more  of  the  days  of  the  week  than  by  a  sort  of  instinet  for  the 
fete  on  Sundays,  and  where  only  one  person  can  tell  you  the 
day  of  the  month,  and  she  is  generally  wrong  ;  and  if  people 
were  aware  how  slow  Time  journeyed  in  that  village,  and  what 
armful s  of  spare  hours  he  gives,  over  and  above  the  bargain, 
to  its  wise  inhabitants,  I  believe  there  would  be  a  stampede 
out  of  London,  Liverpool,  Paris,  and  a  variety  of  large  towns, 
where  the  clocks  lose  their  heads,  and  shake  the  hours  out 
each  one  faster  than  the  other,  as  though  they  were  all  in  a 
wager.  And  all  these  foolish  pilgrims  would  each  bring  his 
own  misery  along  with  him,  in  a  watch-pocket !  It  is  to  be 
noticed,  there  were  no  clocks  and  watches  in  the  much-vaunted 
days  before  the  flood.  It  follows,  of  course,  there  were  no  ap- 
pointments, and  punctuality  was  not  yet  thought  upon.  "  Though 
ye  take  from  a  covetous  man  all  his  treasure,"  says  Milton, 
"  he  has  yet  one  jewel  left ;  ye  cannot  deprive  him  of  his  cov- 
etousness,"  And  so  I  would  say  of  a  modern  man  of  business, 
you  may  do  what  you  will  for  him,  put  him  in  Eden,  give  him 
the  elixir  of  life  —  he  has  still  a  flaw  at  heart,  he  still  has  his 
business  habits.  Now,  there  is  no  time  when  business  habits 
are  more  mitigated  than  on  a  walking  tour.  And  so  during 
these  halts,  as  I   say,  you  will  feel  almost  free. 

But  it  is  at  night,  and  after  dinner,  that  the  best  hour 
comes.  There  are  no  such  pipes  to  be  smoked  as  those  that 
follow  a  good  day's  march  ;  the  flavour  of  the  tobacco  is  a  thing 
to  be  remembered,  it  is  so  dry  and  aromatic,  so  full  and  so  fine. 
If  you  wind  up  the  evening  with  grog,  you  will  own  there  was 
never  such  grog ;  at  every  sip  a  jocund  tranquillity  spreads 
about  your  limbs,  and  sits  easily  in  your  heart.  If  you  read  a 
book  —  and  you  will  never  do  so  save  by  fits  and  starts  • —  you 
find  the  language  strangely  racy  and  harmonious  ;  words  take 
a  new  meaning  ;  single  sentences  possess  the  ear  for  half  an 
hour  together ;  and  the  writer  endears  himself  to  you,  at  every 
page,  by  the  nicest  coincidence  of  sentiment.     It  seems  as  if 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  363 

it  were  a  book  you  had  written  yourself  in  a  dream.  To  all 
we  have  read  on  such  occasions  we  look  back  with  special 
favour.  "It  was  on  the  loth  of  April,  1798,"  says  Hazlitt, 
with  amorous  precision,  "  that  I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the 
new  Hclo'isc,  at  the  Inn  at  Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of  sherry 
and  a  cold  chicken."  I  should  wish  to  quote  more,  for  though 
we  are  mighty  fine  fellows  nowadays,  we  cannot  write  like 
Hazlitt.  And,  talking  of  that,  a  volume  of  Hazlitt's  essays 
would  be  a  capital  pocket-book  on  such  a  j(jurney  ;  so  would 
a  volume  of  Heine's  songs  ;  and  for  Tristram  Shandy  I  can 
pledge  a  fair  experience. 

If  the  evening  be  fine  and  warm,  there  is  nothing  better  in 
life  than  to  lounge  before  the  inn  door  in  the  sunset,  or  lean 
over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  to  watch  the  weeds  and  the 
quick  fishes.  It  is  then,  if  ever,  that  you  taste  joviality  to  the 
full  significance  of  that  audacious  word.  Your  muscles  are  so 
agreeably  slack,  you  feel  so  clean  and  so  strong  and  so  idle, 
that  whether  you  move  or  sit  still,  whatever  you  do  is  done 
with  pride  and  a  kingly  sort  of  pleasure.  You  fall  in  talk  with 
any  one,  wise  or  foolish,  drunk  or  sober.  And  it  seems  as  if  a 
hot  walk  purged  you,  more  than  of  anything  else,  of  all  narrow- 
ness and  pride,  and  left  curiosity  to  play  its  part  freely,  as  in  a 
child  or  a  man  of  science.  You  lay  aside  all  your  own  hobbies, 
to  watch  provincial  humours  develop  themselves  before  you, 
now  as  a  laughable  farce,  and  now  grave  and  beautiful  like 
an  old  tale. 

Or  perhaps  you  are  left  to  your  own  company  for  the  night, 
and  surly  weather  imprisons  you  by  the  fire.  You  may  remem- 
ber how  Burns,  numbering  past  pleasures,  dwells  upon  the 
hours  when  he  has  been  "  happy  thinking."  It  is  a  phrase 
that  may  well  perplex  a  poor  modern,  girt  about  on  every  side 
by  clocks  and  chimes,  and  haunted,  even  at  night,  by  flaming 
dial-plates.  For  we  are  all  so  busy,  and  have  so  many  far-off 
projects  to  realise,  and  castles  in  the  fire  to  turn  into  solid, 
habitable  mansions  on  a  gravel  soil,  that  we  can  find  no  time 
for  pleasure  trips  into  the  Land  of  Thought  and  among  the 


364  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Mills  of  Vanity.  Changed  times,  indeed,  when  we  must  sit 
all  night,  beside  the  fire,  with  folded  hands  ;  and  a  changed 
world  for  most  of  us,  when  we  find  we  can  pass  the  hours 
without  discontent,  and  be  happy  thinking.  We  are  in  such 
haste  to  be  doing,  to  be  writing,  to  be  gathering  gear,  to  make 
our  voice  audible  a  moment  in  the  derisive  silence  of  eternity, 
that  we  forget  that  one  thing,  of  which  these  are  but  the  parts 
—  namely  to  live.  We  fall  in  love,  we  drink  hard,  we  run  to 
and  fro  upon  the  earth  like  frightened  sheep.  And  now  you 
are  to  ask  3^ourself  if,  when  all  is  done,  you  would  not  have 
been  better  to  sit  by  the  fire  at  home,  and  be  happy  thinking. 
To  sit  still  and  contemplate,  —  to  remember  the  faces  of  women 
without  desire,  to  be  pleased  by  the  great  deeds  of  men  with- 
out envy,  to  be  everything  and  everywhere  in  sympathy,  and 
yet  content  to  remain  where  and  what  you  are  —  is  not  this 
to  know  both  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  to  dwell  with  happiness .'' 
After  all,  it  is  not  they  who  carry  flags,  but  they  who  look  upon 
it  from  a  private  chamber,  who  have  the  fun  of  the  procession. 
And  once  you  are  at  that,  you  are  in  the  very  humour  of  all 
social  heresy.  It  is  no  time  for  shuffling,  or  for  big,  empty 
words.  If  you  ask  yourself  what  you  mean  by  fame,  riches, 
or  learning,  the  answer  is  far  to  seek  ;  and  you  go  back  into 
that  kingdom  of  light  imaginations,  which  seem  so  vain  in  the 
eyes  of  Philistines  perspiring  after  wealth,  and  so  momentous 
to  those  who  are  stricken  with  the  disproportions  of  the  world, 
and,  in  the  face  of  the  gigantic  stars,  cannot  stop  to  split  dif- 
ferences between  two  degrees  of  the  infinitesimally  small,  such 
as  a  tobacco  pipe  or  the  Roman  Empire,  a  million  of  money 
or  a  fiddlestick's  end. 

You  lean  from  the  window,  your  last  pipe  reeking  whitely 
into  the  darkness,  your  body  full  of  delicious  pains,  your  mind 
enthroned  in  the  seventh  circle  of  content;  when  suddenly  the 
mood  changes,  the  weather-cock  goes  about,  and  you  ask  your- 
self one  question  more  :  whether,  for  the  interval,  you  have 
been  the  wisest  philosopher  or  the  most  egregious  of  donkeys  ? 
Human  experience  is  not  yet  able  to  reply ;    but  at  least  you 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  ^6 


^'-'3 


have  had  a  fine  moment,  and  looked  down  upon  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth.  And  whether  it  was  wise  or  foolish, 
to-morrow's  travel  will  carry  you,  body  and  mind,  into  some 
different  parish  of  the  infinite. 


ON  FALLING  IN  LOVE 

ConiJiill  Magazine,  February,  1877 
"  Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be !  " 

There  is  only  one  event  in  life  which  really  astonishes  a 
man  and  startles  him  out  of  his  prepared  opinions.  Everything 
else  befalls  him  very  much  as  he  expected.  Event  succeeds 
to  event,  with  an  agreeable  variety  indeed,  but  with  little  that 
is  either  startling  or  intense  ;  they  form  together  no  more  than 
a  sort  of  background,  or  running  accompaniment  to  the  man's 
own  reflections ;  and  he  falls  naturally  into  a  cool,  curious,  and 
smiling  habit  of  mind,  and  builds  himself  up  in  a  conception 
of  life  which  expects  to-morrow  to  be  after  the  pattern  of  to- 
day and  yesterday.  He  may  be  accustomed  to  the  vagaries  of 
his  friends  and  acquaintances  under  the  influence  of  love.  He 
may  sometimes  look  forward  to  it  for  himself  with  an  incom- 
prehensible expectation.  Ikit  it  is  a  subject  in  which  neither 
intuition  nor  the  behaviour  of  others  will  help  the  philosopher 
to  the  truth.  There  is  probably  nothing  rightly  thought  or 
rightly  written  on  this  matter  of  love  that  is  not  a  piece  of 
the  person's  experience.  I  remember  an  anecdote  of  a  well- 
known  French  theorist,  who  was  debating  a  point  eagerly  in 
his  cenaclc.  It  was  objected  against  him  that  he  had  never 
experienced  love.  Whereupon  he  arose,  left  the  societ}',  and 
made  it  a  point  not  to  return  to  it  until  he  considered  that  he 
had  supplied  the  defect.  "  Now,"  he  remarked,  on  entering, 
"'  now  I  am  in  a  position  to  continue  the  discussion."  Perhaps 
he  had  not  penetrated  very  deeply  into  the  subject  after  all ; 
but  the  story  indicates  right  thinking,  and  may  serve  as  an 
apologue  to  readers  of  this  essay. 


366  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

When  at  last  the  scales  fall  from  his  eyes,  it  is  not  without 
something  of  the  nature  of  dismay  that  the  man  finds  himself 
in  such  changed  conditions.  Me  has  to  deal  with  commanding 
emotions  instead  of  the  easy  dislikes  and  preferences  in  which 
he  has  hitherto  passed  his  days  ;  and  he  recognises  capabilities 
for  pain  and  pleasure  of  which  he  had  not  yet  suspected  the 
existence.  Falling  in  love  is  the  one  illogical  adventure,  the 
one  thing  of  which  we  are  tempted  to  tliink  as  supernatural, 
in  our  trite  and  reasonable  world.  The  effect  is  out  of  all  pro- 
portion with  the  cause.  Two  persons,  neither  of  them,  it  may 
be,  very  amiable  or  very  beautiful,  meet,  speak  a  little,  and 
look  a  little  into  each  other's  eyes.  That  has  been  done  a 
dozen  or  so  of  times  in  the  experience  of  either  with  no  great 
result.  But  on  this  occasion  all  is  different.  They  fall  at  once 
into  that  state  in  which  another  person  becomes  to  us  the 
very  gist  and  centrepoint  of  God's  creation,  and  demolishes 
our  laborious  theories  with  a  smile  ;  in  which  our  ideas  are  so 
bound  up  with  the  one  master-thought  that  even  the  trivial 
cares  of  our  own  person  become  so  many  acts  of  devotion, 
and  the  love  of  life  itself  is  translated  into  a  wish  to  remain 
in  the  same  world  with  so  precious  and  desirable  a  fellow- 
creature.  And  all  the  while  their  acquaintances  look  on  in 
stupor,  and  ask  each  other,  with  almost  passionate  emphasis, 
what  so-and-so  can  see  in  that  woman,  or  sucli-an-one  in  that 
man  .''  I  am  sure,  gentlemen,  I  cannot  tell  you.  T^or  my  part, 
I  cannot  think  what  the  women  mean.  It  might  be  very  well, 
if  the  Apollo  Belvedere  should  suddenly  glow  all  over  into 
life,  and  step  forward  from  the  pedestal  with  that  godlike  air 
of  his.  Ikit  of  the  misbegotten  changelings  who  call  them- 
selves men,  and  prate  intolerably  over  dinner-tables,  I  never 
saw  one  who  seemed  worthy  to  inspire  love  —  no,  nor  read 
of  any,  except  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  perhaps  Goethe  in  his 
youth.  About  women  I  entertain  a  somewhat  different  opinion  ; 
but  there,  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  a  man. 

There  are  many  matters  in  which  you  may  waylay  Destiny, 
and   bid   him   stand  and   deliver.    Hard   work,   high   thinking. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  367 

adventurous  excitement,  and  a  great  deal  more  that  forms  a 
part  of  this  or  the  other  person's  spiritual  bill  of  fare,  are 
within  the  reach  of  almost  any  one  who  can  dare  a  little  and 
be  patient.  But  it  is  by  no  means  in  the  way  of  every  one 
to  fall  in  love.  You  know  the  difficulty  Shakespeare  was  put 
into  when  Queen  Elizabeth  asked  him  to  show  Falstaff  in 
love.  I  do  not  believe  that  Henry  Fielding  was  ever  in  love. 
Scott,  if  it  were  not  for  a  passage  or  two  in  Rob  Roy,  would 
give  me  very  much  the  same  effect.  These  are  great  names 
and  (what  is  more  to  the  purpose)  strong,  healthy,  highstrung, 
and  generous  natures,  of  whom  the  reverse  might  have  been 
expected.  As  for  the  innumerable  army  of  anemic  and  tailorish 
persons  who  occupy  the  face  of  this  planet  with  so  much  pro- 
priety, it  is  palpably  absurd  to  imagine  them  in  any  such 
situation  as  a  love-affair.  A  wet  rag  goes  safely  by  the  fire  ; 
and  if  a  man  is  blind,  he  cannot  expect  to  be  much  impressed 
by  romantic  scenery.  Apart  from  all  this,  many  lovable  people 
miss  each  other  in  the  world,  or  meet  under  some  unfavourable 
star.  There  is  the  nice  and  critical  moment  of  declaration 
to  be  got  over.  From  timidity  or  lack  of  opportunity  a  good 
half  of  possible  love  cases  never  get  so  far,  and  at  least 
another  quarter  do  there  cease  and  determine.  A  veiy  adroit 
person,  to  be  sure,  manages  to  prepare  the  way  and  out  with 
his  declaration  in  the  nick  of  time.  And  then  there  is  a  fine 
solid  sort  of  man,  who  goes  on  from  snub  to  snub  ;  and  if  he 
has  to  declare  forty  times,  will  continue  imperturbably  declar- 
ing, amid  the  astonished  consideration  of  men  and  angels, 
until  he  has  a  favourable  answer.  I  daresay,  if  one  were  a 
woman,  one  would  like  to  marry  a  man  who  was  capable  of 
doing  this,  but  not  quite  one  who  had  done  so.  It  is  just 
a  little  bit  abject,  and  somehow  just  a  little  bit  gross  ;  and 
marriages  in  which  one  of  the  parties  has  been  thus  battered 
into  consent  scarcely  form  agreeable  subjects  for  meditation. 
Love  should  run  out  to  meet  love  with  open  arms.  Indeed, 
the  ideal  story  is  that  of  two  people  who  go  into  love  step 
for  step,  with  a  fluttered  consciousness,  like  a  pair  of  children 


S6S  THE  ENGT.ISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

venturing  togctlicr  into  a  dark  room.  I'rom  the  first  moment 
when  tliey  see  each  other,  with  a  pang  of  curiosity,  through 
stage  after  stage  of  growing  pleasure  and  embarrassment,  they 
can  read  the  expression  of  their  own  trouble  in  each  other's 
eyes.  There  is  here  no  declaration  properly  so  called  ;  the  feel- 
ing is  so  plainly  shared,  that  as  soon  as  the  man  knows  what  it 
is  in  his  own  heart,  he  is  sure  of  what  it  is  in  the  woman's. 

This  simple  accident  of  falling  in  love  is  as  beneficial  as 
it  is  astonishing.  It  arrests  the  petrifying  influence  of  years, 
disproves  cold-blooded  and  cynical  conclusions,  and  awakens 
dormant  sensibilities.  Hitherto  the  man  had  found  it  a  gocKl 
policy  to  disbeliex'e  the  existence  of  any  enjoyment  which  was 
out  of  his  reach  ;  and  thus  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  strong, 
sunny  parts  of  nature,  and  accustomed  himself  to  look  exclu- 
sively on  what  was  common  and  dull.  He  accepted  a  prose 
ideal,  let  himself  go  blind  of  many  sympathies  by  disuse  ;  and 
if  he  were  young  and  witty,  or  beautiful,  wilfully  forewent 
these  advantages.  He  joined  himself  to  the  following  of  what, 
in  the  old  mythology  of  love,  was  prettily  called  noncJialoir ; 
and  in  an  odd  mixture  of  feelings,  a  fling  of  self-respect,  a 
preference  for  selfish  lil)erty,  and  a  great  dash  of  that  fear 
with  which  honest  people  regard  serious  interests,  kept  himself 
back  from  the  straightforward  course  of  life  among  certain 
selected  activities.  And  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  is  unhorsed, 
like  St.  Paul,  from  his  infidel  affectation.  His  heart,  which 
has  been  ticking  accurate  seconds  for  the  last  year,  gives  a 
bound  and  begins  to  beat  high  and  irregularly  in  his  breast. 
It  seems  as  if  he  had  never  heard  or  felt  or  seen  until  that 
moment ;  and  by  the  report  of  his  memory,  he  must  have 
lived  his  past  life  between  sleep  or  waking,  or  with  the 
preoccupied  attention  of  a  brown  study.  He  is  practically 
incommoded  by  the  generosity  of  his  feelings,  smiles  much 
when  he  is  alone,  and  develops  a  habit  of  looking  rather 
blankly  upon  the  moon  and  stars.  But  it  is  not  at  all  within 
the  province  of  a  prose  essayist  to  give  a  picture  of  this  hyper- 
bolical frame  of  mind  ;  and  the  thing  has  been  done  already, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  369 

and  that  to  admiration.  In  Adelaide,  in  Tennyson's  Afcuid, 
and  in  some  of  Heine's  songs,  you  get  the  absolute  expression 
of  this  midsummer  spirit.  Romeo  and  Juhet  were  very  much 
in  love  ;  although  they  tell  me  some  German  critics  are  of  a 
different  opinion,  jDrobably  the  same  who  would  have  us  think 
IMercutio  a  dull  fellow.  Poor  Antony  was  in  love,  and  no 
mistake.  That  lay  figure  Marius,  in  Les  Miscrables,  is  also 
a  genuine  case  in  his  own  wa)^,  and  worth  observation.  A 
good  many  of  George  Sand's  people  are  thoroughly  in  love  ; 
and  so  are  a  good  many  of  George  Meredith's.  Altogether, 
there  is  plenty  to  read  on  the  subject.  If  the  root  of  the 
matter  be  in  him,  and  if  he  has  the  requisite  chords  to  set  in 
vibration,  a  young  man  may  occasionally  enter,  with  the  key 
of  art,  into  that  land  of  Beulah  which  is  upon  the  borders  of 
Heaven  and  within  sight  of  the  City  of  Love.  There  let  him 
sit  awhile  to  hatch  delightful  hopes  and  perilous  illusions. 

One  thing  that  accompanies  the  passion  in  its  first  blush  is 
certainly  difficult  to  explain.  It  comes  (I  do  not  quite  see  how) 
that  from  having  a  very  supreme  sense  of  pleasure  in  all  parts 
of  life  —  in  lying  down  to  sleep,  in  waking,  in  motion,  in 
breathing,  in  continuing  to  be  —  the  lover  begins  to  regard  his 
happiness  as  beneficial  for  the  rest  of  the  world  and  highly 
meritorious  in  himself.  Our  race  has  never  been  able  con- 
tentedly to  suppose  that  the  noise  of  its  wars,  conducted  by  a 
few  young  gentlemen  in  a  corner  of  an  inconsiderable  star, 
does  not  re-echo  among  the  courts  of  Heaven  with  quite  a 
formidable  effect.  In  mucli  the  same  taste,  when  people  find 
a  great  to-do  in  their  own  breasts,  they  imagine  it  must  have 
some  influence  in  their  neighbourhood.  The  presence  of  the 
two  lovers  is  so  enchanting  to  each  other  that  it  seems  as  if 
it  must  be  the  best  thing  possible  for  eveiybody  else.  They 
arc  half  inclined  to  fancy  it  is  because  of  them  and  their  love 
that  the  sky  is  blue  and  the  sun  shines.  And  certain!)-  the 
weather  is  usually  fine  while  people  are  courting.  ...  In  point 
of  fact,  although  the  happy  man  feels  very  kindl}'  towards 
others  of  his  own  sex,  there  is  apt  to  be  something  too  much 


370  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

of  the  magnifico  in  his  demeanour.  If  people  grow  presuming 
and  self-important  over  such  matters  as  a  dukedom  or  the 
Holy  See,  they  will  scarcely  support  the  dizziest  elevation  in 
life  without  some  suspicion  of  a  strut ;  and  the  dizziest  eleva- 
tion is  to  love  and  be  loved  in  return.  Consequently,  accepted 
lovers  are  a  trifle  condescending  in  their  address  to  other  men. 
An  overweening  sense  of  the  passion  and  importance  of  life 
hardly  conduces  to  simplicity  of  manner.  To  women,  they  feel 
very  nobly,  very  purely,  and  very  generously,  as  if  they  were 
so  many  Joan-of-Arc's  ;  but  this  does  not  come  out  in  their 
behaviour ;  and  they  treat  them  to  Grandisonian  airs  marked 
with  a  suspicion  of  fatuity.  I  am  not  quite  certain  that  women 
do  not  like  this  sort  of  thing ;  but  really,  after  having  bemused 
myself  over  Daniel  Dcronda,  I  have  given  up  trying  to  under- 
stand what  they  like. 

If  it  did  nothing  else,  this  sublime  and  ridiculous  supersti- 
tion, that  the  pleasure  of  the  pair  is  somehow  blessed  to  others, 
and  everybody  is  made  happier  in  their  happiness,  would  serve 
at  least  to  keep  love  generous  and  great-hearted.  Nor  is  it 
ciuite  a  baseless  superstition  after  all.  Other  lovers  are  hugely 
interested.  They  strike  the  nicest  balance  between  pity  and 
approval,  when  they  see  people  aping  the  greatness  of  their 
own  sentiments.  It  is  an  understood  thing  in  the  play  that 
while  the  young  gentlefolk  are  courting  on  the  terrace,  a  rough 
flirtation  is  being  carried  on,  and  a  light,  trivial  sort  of  love 
is  growing  up,  between  the  footman  and  the  singing  chamber- 
maid. As  people  are  generally  cast  for  the  leading  parts  in 
their  own  imaginations,  the  reader  can  apply  the  parallel  to 
real  life  without  much  chance  of  going  wrong.  In  short,  they 
are  quite  sure  this  other  love-affair  is  not  so  deep-seated  as 
their  own,  but  they  like  dearly  to  see  it  going  forward.  And 
love,  considered  as  a  spectacle,  must  have  attractions  for  many 
who  are  not  of  the  confraternity.  The  sentimental  old  maid 
is  a  commonplace  of  the  novelists  ;  and  he  must  be  rather  a 
poor  sort  of  human  being,  to  be  sure,  who  can  look  on  at  this 
pretty  madness  without  indulgence  and  sympathy.    For  nature 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  371 

commends  itself  to  people  with  a  most  insinuating  art ;  the 
busiest  is  now  and  again  arrested  by  a  great  sunset ;  and  you 
may  be  as  pacific  or  as  cold-blooded  as  you  wnll,  but  you  cannot 
help  some  emotion  when  you  read  of  well-disputed  battles,  or 
meet  a  pair  of  lovers  in  the  lane. 

Certainly,  whatever  it  may  be  with  regard  to  the  world  at 
large,  this  idea  of  beneficent  pleasure  is  true  as  between  the 
sweethearts.  To  do  good  and  communicate  is  the  lover's  grand 
intention.  It  is  the  happiness  of  the  other  that  makes  his  own 
most  intense  gratification.  It  is  not  possible  to  disentangle  the 
different  emotions,  the  pride,  humility,  pity,  and  passion,  which 
are  excited  by  a  look  of  happy  love  or  an  unexpected  caress. 
To  make  one's  self  beautiful,  to  dress  the  hair,  to  excel  in  talk, 
to  do  anything  and  all  things  that  puff  out  the  character  and 
attributes  and  make  them  imposing  in  the  eyes  of  others,  is 
not  only  to  magnify  one's  self,  but  to  offer  the  most  delicate 
homage  at  the  same  time.  And  it  is  in  this  latter  intention 
that  they  are  done  by  lovers  ;  for  the  essence  of  love  is  kind- 
ness ;  and  indeed  it  may  be  best  defined  as  passionate  kindness : 
kindness,  so  to  speak,  run  mad  and  become  importunate  and 
violent.  Vanity  in  a  merely  personal  sense  exists  no  longer. 
The  lover  takes  a  perilous  pleasure  in  privately  displaying  his 
weak  points  and  having  them,  one  after  another,  accepted  and 
condoned.  He  wishes  to  be  assured  that  he  is  not  loved  for 
this  or  that  good  quality,  but  for  himself,  or  something  as 
like  himself  as  he  can  contrive  to  set  forward.  For,  although 
it  may  have  been  a  ver}^  difficult  thing  to  paint  the  marriage 
of  Cana,  or  write  the  fourth  act  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
there  is  a  more  difficult  piece  of  art  before  ever}'  one  in  this 
world  who  cares  to  set  about  explaining  his  own  character  to 
others.  Words  and  acts  are  easily  wrenched  from  their  true 
significance  ;  and  they  are  all  the  language  we  have  to  come 
and  go  upon.  A  pitiful  job  we  make  of  it,  as  a  rule.  For  better 
or  worse,  people  mistake  our  meaning  and  take  our  emotions 
at  a  wrong  valuation.  And  generally  we  rest  pretty  content 
with  our  failures ;   we  are  content  to  be  misapprehended  by 


372  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

cackling  flirts  ;  but  when  once  a  man  is  moonstruck  with  this 
affection  of  love,  he  makes  it  a  point  of  honour  to  clear  such 
dubieties  away.  He  cannot  have  the  Best  of  her  Sex  misled 
upon  a  point  of  this  importance ;  and  his  pride  revolts  at  being 
loved  in  a  mistake. 

He  discovers  a  great  reluctance  to  return  on  former  periods 
of  his  life.  To  all  that  has  not  been  shared  with  her,  rights 
and  duties,  bygone  fortunes  and  dispositions,  he  can  look  back 
only  by  a  difficult  and  repugnant  effort  of  the  will.  That  he 
should  have  wasted  some  years  in  ignorance  of  what  alone  was 
really  important,  that  he  may  have  entertained  the  thought 
of  other  women  with  any  show  of  complacency,  is  a  burthen 
almost  too  heavy  for  his  self-respect.  But  it  is  the  thought  of 
another  past  that  rankles  in  his  spirit  like  a  poisoned  wound. 
That  he  himself  made  a  fashion  of  being  alive  in  the  bald, 
beggarly  days  before  a  certain  meeting,  is  deplorable  enough 
in  all  good  conscience.  But  that  She  should  have  permitted 
herself  the  same  liberty  seems  inconsistent  with  a  Divine 
providence. 

A  great  many  people  run  down  jealousy,  on  the  score  that 
it  is  an  artificial  feeling,  as  well  as  practically  inconvenient. 
This  is  scarcely  fair ;  for  the  feeling  on  which  it  merely  at- 
tends, like  an  ill-humoured  courtier,  is  itself  artificial  in  exactly 
the  same  sense  and  to  the  same  degree.  I  suppose  what  is 
meant  by  that  objection  is  that  jealousy  has  not  always  been  a 
character  of  man  ;  formed  no  part  of  that  very  modest  kit  of 
sentiments  with  which  he  is  supposed  to  have  begun  the  world ; 
but  waited  to  make  its  appearance  in  better  days  and  among 
richer  natures.  And  this  is  equally  true  of  love,  and  friendship, 
and  love  of  country,  and  delight  in  what  they  call  the  beauties 
of  nature,  and  most  other  things  worth  having.  Love,  in  par- 
ticular, will  not  endure  any  historical  scrutiny  :  to  all  who  have 
fallen  across  it,  it  is  one  of  the  most  incontestable  facts  in  the 
world  ;  but  if  you  begin  to  ask  what  it  was  in  other  periods 
and  countries,  in  Greece  for  instance,  the  strangest  doubts  be- 
gin to  spring  up,  and  everything  seems  so  vague  and  changing 


ROBERT  LOUTS  STl'.VENSON  373 

that  a  dream  is  lo.^ical  in  comparison.  Jealousy,  at  any  rate, 
is  one  of  the  consequences  of  love  ;  you  may  Hke  it  or  not,  at 
pleasure ;  but  there  it  is. 

It  is  not  exactly  jealousy,  however,  that  we  feel  when  we 
reflect  on  the  past  of  those  we  love,  A  bundle  of  letters  ftjund 
after  years  of  happy  union  creates  no  sense  of  insecurity  in  the 
present;  and  yet  it  will  pain  a  man  sharply.  The  tw-o  people 
lentertain  no  vulgar  doubt  of  each  other :  but  this  preexistence 
of  both  occurs  to  the  mind  as  something  indelicate.  To  be 
altogether  right,  they  should  have  had  twin  birth  together,  at 
the  same  moment  with  the  feeling  that  unites  them.  Then 
indeed  it  would  be  simple  and  perfect  and  without  reser\'e  or 
afterthought.  Then  they  would  understand  each  other  w-ith  a 
fulness  impossible  otherwise.  There  would  be  no  barrier  be- 
tween them  of  associations  that  cannot  be  imparted.  They 
would  be  led  into  none  of  those  comparisons  that  send  the 
blood  back  to  the  heart.  And  they  would  know  that  there  had 
been  no  time  lost,  and  they  had  been  together  as  much  as 
was  possible.  For  besides  terror  for  the  separation  that  must 
follow  some  time  or  other  in  the  future,  men  feel  anger,  and 
something  like  remorse,  when  they  think  of  that  other  separa- 
tion which  endured  until  they  met.  Some  one  has  written  that 
love  makes  people  believe  in  immortalit}',  because  there  seems 
not  to  be  room  enough  in  life  for  so  great  a  tenderness,  and 
it  is  inconceivable  that  the  most  masterful  of  our  emotions 
should  have  no  more  than  the  spare  moments  of  a  few^  years. 
Indeed,  it  seems  strange  ;  but  if  we  call  to  mind  analogies, 
we  can  hardly  regard  it  as  impossible. 

'"  The  blind  bow-boy,"  who  smiles  upon  us  from  the  end  of 
terraces  in  old  Dutch  gardens,  laughingly  hails  his  bird-bolts 
among  a  fleeting  generation.  But  for  as  fast  as  ever  he  shoots, 
the  game  dissolves  and  disappears  into  eternity  from  under  his 
falling  arrows  ;  this  one  is  gone  ere  he  is  struck  ;  the  other 
has  but  time  to  make  one  gesture  and  give  one  passionate  cry; 
and  they  are  all  the  things  of  a  moment.  When  the  generation 
is  gone,  when  the  play  is  over,  when  the  thirty  years'  panorama 


374  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

has  been  withdrawn  in  tatters  from  the  stage  of  the  world,  we 
may  ask  what  has  become  of  these  great,  weighty,  and  undying 
loves,  and  the  sweethearts  who  despised  mortal  conditions  in 
a  fine  credulity ;  and  they  can  only  show  us  a  few  songs  in  a 
bygone  taste,  a  few  actions  worth  remembering,  and  a  few 
children  who  have  retained  some  happy  stamp  from  the  dis- 
position of  their  parents. 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS^ 

Scrib/ier's  Magazine^  February,  1 888 


These  boys  congregated  every  autumn  about  a  certain  east- 
erly fisher-village,  where  they  tasted  in  a  high  degree  the  glory 
of  existence.  The  place  was  created  seemingly  on  purpose  for 
the  diversion  of  young  gentlemen.  A  street  or  two  of  houses, 
mostly  red  and  many  of  them  tiled  ;  a  number  of  fine  trees 
clustered  about  the  manse  and  the  kirkyard,  and  turning  the 
chief  street  into  a  shady  alley ;  many  little  gardens  more  than 
usually  bright  with  flowers ;  nets  a-drying,  and  fisher-wives 
scolding  in  the  backward  parts  ;  a  smell  of  fish,  a  genial  smell 
of  seaweed  ;  whiffs  of  blowing  sand  at  the  street-corners  ;  shops 
with  golf-balls  and  bottled  lollipops ;  another  shop  with  penny 
pickwicks  (that  remarkable  cigar)  and  the  London  Journal,  dear 
to  me  for  its  startling  pictures,  and  a  few  novels,  dear  for  their 
suggestive  names  :  such,  as  well  as  memory  serves  me,  were 
the  ingredients  of  the  town.  These,  you  are  to  conceive  posted 
on  a  spit  between  two  sandy  bays,  and  sparsely  flanked  with 
villas  —  enough  for  the  boys  to  lodge  in  with  their  subsidiary 
parents,  not  enough  (not  yet  enough)  to  cocknify  the  scene  : 
a  haven  in  the  rocks  in  front :  in  front  of  that,  a  file  of  gray 
islets  :  to  the  left,  endless  links  and  sand  wreaths,  a  wilderness 
of  hiding-holes,  alive  with  popping  rabbits  and  soaring  gulls  : 
to  the  right,  a  range  of  seaward  crags,  one  rugged  brow  beyond 

1  Yxovcv  Across  the  Plains.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by  permission. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  S1M<:VENS0N  375 

another ;  the  ruins  of  a  mighty  and  ancient  fortress  on  the 
brink  of  one  ;  coves  between  —  now  charmed  into  sunshine 
quiet,  now  whisthng  with  wind  and  clamorous  with  bursting 
surges ;  the  dens  and  sheltered  hollows  redolent  of  thyme  and 
southernwood,  the  air  at  the  cliff's  edge  brisk  and  clean  and 
pungent  of  the  sea  —  in  front  of  all,  the  Bass  Rock,  tilted  sea- 
ward like  a  doubtful  bather,  the  surf  ringing  it  with  white,  the 
solan-geese  hanging  round  its  summit  like  a  great  and  glitter- 
ing smoke.  This  choice  piece  of  seaboard  was  sacred,  besides, 
to  the  wrecker ;  and  the  Bass,  in  the  eye  of  fancy,  still  flew 
the  colours  of  King  James  ;  and  in  the  ear  of  fancy  the  arches 
of  Tantallon  still  rang  with  horseshoe  iron,  and  echoed  to  the 
commands  of  Bell-the-Cat. 

There  was  nothing  to  mar  your  days,  if  )'0U  were  a  boy  sum- 
mering in  that  part,  but  the  embarrassment  of  pleasure.  You 
might  golf  if  you  wanted  ;  but  I  seem  to  have  been  better 
employed.  You  might  secrete  yourself  in  the  Lady's  Walk,  a 
certain  sunless  dingle  of  elders,  all  mossed  over  by  the  damp 
as  green  as  grass,  and  dotted  here  and  there  by  the  streamside 
with  roofless  walls,  the  cold  homes  of  anchorites.  To  fit  them- 
selves for  life,  and  with  a  special  eye  to  accjuire  the  art  of 
smoking,  it  was  even  common  for  the  boys  to  harbour  there  ; 
and  you  might  have  seen  a  single  penny  pickwick,  honestly 
shared  in  lengths  with  a  blunt  knife,  bestrew  the  glen  with 
these  apprentices.  Again,  you  might  join  our  fishing  parties, 
where  we  sat  perched  as  thick  as  solan-geese,  a  covey  of  little 
anglers,  boy  and  girl,  angling  over  each  other's  heads,  to  the 
much  entanglement  of  lines  and  loss  of  podleys  and  consequent 
shrill  recrimination  —  shrill  as  the  geese  themselves.  Indeed, 
had  that  been  all,  you  might  have  done  this  often  ;  but  though 
fishing  be  a  fine  pastime,  the  podley  is  scarce  to  be  regarded 
as  a  dainty  for  the  table  ;  and  it  was  a  point  of  honour  that  a 
boy  should  cat  all  that  he  had  taken.  Or  again,  you  might 
climb  the  Law,  where  the  whale's  jawbone  stood  landmark  in 
the  buzzing  wind,  and  behold  the  face  of  many  counties,  and 
the  smoke  and  spires  of  many  towns,  and  the  sails  of  distant 


376  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

ships.  You  might  bathe,  now  in  the  flaws  of  fine  weather, 
that  we  pathetically  call  our  summer,  now  in  a  gale  of  wind, 
with  the  sand  scourging  your  bare  hide,  your  clothes  thrashing 
abroad  from  underneath  their  guardian  stone,  the  froth  of  the 
great  breakers  casting  you  headlong  ere  it  had  drowned  your 
knees.  Or  you  might  explore  the  tidal  rocks,  above  all  in 
the  ebb  of  springs,  when  the  very  roots  of  the  hills  were  for 
the  nonce  discovered  ;  following  my  leader  from  one  group 
to  another,  groping  in  slippery  tangle  for  the  wreck  of  ships, 
wading  in  pools  after  the  abominable  creatures  of  the  sea,  and 
ever  with  an  eye  cast  backward  on  the  march  of  the  tide  and 
the  menaced  line  of  your  retreat.  And  then  you  might  go 
Crusoeing,  a  word  that  covers  all  extempore  eating  in  the  open 
air  :  digging  perhaps  a  house  under  the  margin  of  the  links, 
kindling  a  fire  of  the  sea-ware,  and  cooking  apples  there  —  if 
they  were  truly  apples,  for  I  sometimes  suppose  the  merchant 
must  have  played  us  off  with  some  inferior  and  quite  local 
fruit,  capable  of  resolving,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  fire,  into 
mere  sand  and  smoke  and  iodine  ;  or  perhaps  pushing  to 
Tantallon,  you  might  lunch  on  sandwiches  and  visions  in  the 
grassy  court,  while  the  wind  hummed  in  the  crumbling  turrets  ; 
or  clambering  along  the  coast,  eat  geans  (the  worst,  I  must 
suppose,  in  Christendom)  from  an  adventurous  gean  tree 
that  had  taken  root  under  a  cliff,  where  it  was  shaken  with 
an  ague  of  east  wind,  and  silvered  after  gales  with  salt,  and 
grew  so  foreign  among  its  bleak  surroundings  that  to  eat  of 
its  produce  was* an  adventure  in  itself. 

There  are  mingled  some  dismal  memories  with  so  many 
that  were  joyous.  Of  the  fisher-wife,  for  instance,  who  had 
cut  her  throat  at  Canty  Bay ;  and  of  how  I  ran  with  the  other 
children  to  the  top  of  the  Quadrant,  and  beheld  a  posse  of 
silent  people  escorting  a  cart,  and  on  the  cart,  bound  in  a 
chair,  her  throat  bandaged,  and  the  bandage  all  bloody  — 
horror !  —  the  fisher-wife  herself,  who  continued  thenceforth 
to  hag-ride  my  thoughts,  and  even  to-day  (as  I  recall  the 
scene)  darkens  daylight.     She  was  lodged  in  the  little  old  jail 


R{)i;]:K'r  louis  stevenson  377 

in  the  chief  street ;  but  whether  or  no  she  died  there,  with  a 
wise  terror  of  the  worst,  I  never  inquired.  She  had  been  tip- 
phng ;  it  was  but  a  dingy  tragedy ;  and  it  seems  strange  and 
hard  that,  after  a|l  these  years,  the  poor  crazy  sinner  should 
be  still  pilloried  on  her  cart  in  the  scrap-book  of  my  memory. 
Nor  shall  I  readily  forget  a  certain  house  in  the  Quadrant 
where  a  visitor  died,  and  a  dark  old  woman  continued  to  dwell 
alone  with  the  dead  body  ;  nor  how  this  old  woman  conceived 
a  hatred  to  myself  and  one  of  my  cousins,  and  in  the  dread 
hour  of  the  dusk,  as  we  were  clambering  on  the  garden-walls, 
opened  a  window  in  that  house  of  mortality  and  cursed  us  in 
a  shrill  voice  and  with  a  marrowy  choice  of  language.  It  was 
a  pair  of  very  colourless  urchins  that  fled  down  the  lane  from 
this  remarkable  experience  !  But  I  recall  with  a  more  doubtful 
sentiment,  compounded  out  of  fear  and  exultation,  the  coil  of 
equinoctial  tempests ;  trumpeting  squalls,  scouring  flaws  of 
rain  ;  the  boats  with  their  reefed  lugsails  scudding  for  the  har- 
bour mouth,  where  danger  lay,  for  it  was  hard  to  make  when 
the  wind  had  any  east  in  it ;  the  wives  clustered  with  blowing 
shawls  at  the  pier-head,  where  (if  fate  was  against  them)  they 
might  see  boat  and  husband  and  sons  —  their  whole  wealth 
and  their  whole  family  —  engulfed  under  their  eyes ;  and 
(what  I  saw  but  once)  a  troop  of  neighbours  forcing  such  an 
unfortunate  homeward,  and  she  sc}ualling  and  battling  in  their 
midst,  a  figure  scarcely  human,  a  tragic  Maenad. 

These  are  things  that  I  recall  with  interest ;  but  what  my 
memory  dwells  upon  the  most,  I  have  been  all  this  while  with- 
holding. It  was  a  sport  peculiar  to  the  place,  and  indeed  to 
a  week  or  so  of  our  two  months'  holiday  there.  Maybe  it  still 
flourishes  in  its  native  spot ;  for  boys  and  their  pastimes  are 
swayed  by  periodic  forces  inscrutable  to  man  ;  so  that  tops  and 
marbles  reappear  in  their  due  season,  regular  like  the  sun  and 
moon  ;  and  the  harmless  art  of  knucklebones  has  seen  the  fall 
of  the  Roman  empire  and  the  rise  of  the  United  States.  It 
may  still  flourish  in  its  native  spot,  but  nowhere  else,  I  am 
persuaded ;  for  I  tried  myself  to  introduce  it  on  Tweedside, 


SyH  THE   ENGLISH   FAMILIAR   ESSAY 

and  was  defeated  lamentably  ;  its  charm  being 'quite  local,  like 
a  country  wine  that  cannot  be  exported. 

The  idle  manner  of  it  was  this  :  — 

Toward  the  end  of  September,  when  school-time  was  draw- 
ing near  and  the  nights  were  already  black,,  we  would  begin 
to  sally  from  our  respective  villas,  each  equipped  with  a  tin 
bull's-eye  lantern.  The  thing  was  so  well  known  that  it  had 
worn  a  rut  in  the  commerce  of  Great  Ihitain  ;  and  the  grocers, 
about  the  due  time,  began  to  garnish  their  windows  with  our 
particular  brand  of  luminary.  W^e  wore  them  buckled  to  the 
waist  upon  a  cricket  belt,  and  over  them,  such  was  the  rigour 
of  the  game,  a  buttoned  top-coat.  They  smelled  noisomely 
of  blistered  tin  ;  they  never  burned  aright,  though  they  would 
always  burn  our  fingers  ;  their  use  was  naught ;  the  pleasure 
of  them  merely  fanciful ;  and  yet  a  boy  with  a  bull's-eye  under 
his  top-coat  asked  for  nothing  more.  The  fishermen  used  larir 
terns  about  their  boats,  and  it  was  from  them,  I  suppose,  that 
we  had  got  the  hint ;  but  theirs  were  not  bull's-eyes,  nor  did 
we  ever  play  at  being  fishermen.  The  police  carried  them  at 
their  belts,  and  we  had  plainly  copied  them  in  that ;  yet  we 
did  not  pretend  to  be  policemen.  Burglars,  indeed,  we  may 
have  had  some  haunting  thoughts  of  ;  and  we  had  certainly  an 
eye  to  past  ages  when  lanterns  were  more  common,  and  to 
certain  story-books  in  which  we  had  found  them  to  figure  very 
largely.  But  take  it  for  all  in  all,  the  pleasure  of  the  thing 
was  substantive  ;  and  to  be  a  boy  with  a  bull's-eye  under  his 
top-coat  was  good  enough  for  us. 

When  two  of  these  asses  met,  there  would  be  an  anxious 
"  Have  you  got  your  lantern  }  "  and  a  gratified  "  Yes  !  "  That 
was  the  shibboleth,  and  very  needful  too ;  for,  as  it  was  the 
rule  to  keep  our  glory  contained,  none  could  recognize  a 
lantern-bearer,  unless  (like  the  pole-cat)  by  the  smell.  Four 
or  five  would  sometimes  climb  into  the  belly  of  a  ten-man 
lugger,  with  nothing  but  the  thwarts  above  them  —  for  the 
cabin  was  usually  locked,  or  choose  out  some  hollow  of  the 
links  where  the  wind  might  whistle  overhead.    Inhere  the  coats 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  379 

would  be  unbuttoned  and  the  bull's-eyes  discovered  ;  and  in 
the  chequering  glimmer,  under  the  huge  windy  hall  of  the 
night,  and  cheered  by  a  rich  steam  of  toasting  tinware,  these 
fortunate  young  gentlemen  would  crouch  together  in  the  cold 
sand  of  the  links  or  on  the  scaly  bilges  of  the  fishing-boat,  and 
delight  themselves  with  inappropriate  talk.  Woe  is  me  that  I 
may  not  give  some  specimens  —  some  of  their  foresights  of 
life,  or  deep  inquiries  into  the  rudiments  of  man  and  nature, 
these  were  so  fiery  and  so  innocent,  they  were  so  richly  silly, 
so  romantically  young.  But  the  talk,  at  any  rate,  was  but  a 
condiment ;  and  these  gatherings  themselves  only  accidents  in 
the  career  of  the  lantern-bearer.  The  essence  of  this  bliss  was 
to  walk  by  yourself  in  the  black  night ;  the  slide  shut,  the  top- 
coat buttoned  ;  not  a  ray  escaping,  whether  to  conduct  your 
footsteps  or  to  make  your  glory  public :  a  mere  pillar  of 
darkness  in  the  dark ;  and  all  the  while,  deep  down  in  the 
privacy  of  your  fool's  heart,  to  know  you  had  a  bull's-eye  at 
your  belt,  and  to  exult  and  sing  over  the  knowledge. 

II 

It  is  said  that  a  poet  has  died  young  in  the  breast  of  the 
most  stolid.  It  may  be  contended,  rather,  that  this  (somewhat 
minor)  bard  in  almost  every  case  survives,  and  is  the  spice  of 
life  to  his  possessor.  Justice  is  not  done  to  the  versatility  and 
unplumbed  childishness  of  man's  imagination.  His  life  from 
without  may  seem  but  a  rude  mound  of  mud  ;  there  will  be 
some  golden  chamber  at  the  heart  of  it,  in  which  he  dwells 
delighted ;  and  for  as  dark  as  his  pathway  seems  to  the 
observer,  he  will  have  some  kind  of  a  bull's-eye  at  his  belt. 

It  would  be  hard  to  pick  out  a  career  more  cheerless  than 
that  of  Dancer,  the  miser,  as  he  figures  in  the  Old  Bailey 
Reports,  a  prey  to  the  most  sordid  persecutions,  the  butt  of 
his  neighbourhood,  betrayed  by  his  hired  man,  his  house  be- 
leagured  by  the  impish  school-boy,  and  he  himself  grinding 
and  fuming  and  impotently  fleeing  to  the  law  against  these 
pin-pricks.    You  marvel  at  first  that  any  one  should  willingly 


38o  rilK   ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

prolong  a  life  so  destitute  of  charm  and  dignity  ;  and  then  you 
call  to  memory  that  had  he  chosen,  had  he  ceased  to  be  a 
miser,  he  could  have  been  freed  at  once  from  these  trials,  and 
might  have  built  himself  a  castle  and  gone  escorted  by  a  squad- 
ron. For  the  love  of  more  recondite  joys,  which  we  cannot 
estimate,  which,  it  may  be,  we  should  envy,  the  man  had  will- 
ingly foregone  both  comfort  and  consideration.  "  His  mind  to 
him  a  kingdom  was "  ;  and  sure  enough,  digging  into  that 
mind,  which  seems  at  first  a  dust-heap,  we  unearth  some  price- 
less jewels.  For  Dancer  must  have  had  the  lo\e  of  power  and 
the  disdain  of  using  it,  a  noble  character  in  itself  ;  disdain  of 
many  pleasures,  a  chief  part  of  what  is  commonly  called  wis- 
dom ;  disdain  of  the  inevitable  end,  that  finest  trait  of  man- 
kind ;  scorn  of  men's  opinions,  another  element  of  virtue  ;  and 
at  the  back  of  all,  a  conscience  just  like  yours  and  mine,  whin- 
ing like  a  cur,  swindling  like  a  thimble-rigger,  but  still  pointing 
(there  or  thereabout)  to  some  conventional  standard.  Here 
were  a  cabinet  portrait  to  which  Hawthorne  perhaps  had  done 
justice  ;  and  yet  not  Hawthorne  either,  for  he  was  mildly 
minded,  and  it  lay  not  in  him  to  create  for  us  that  throb  of 
the  miser's  pulse,  his  fretful  energy  of  gusto,  his  vast  arms  of 
ambition  clutching  in  he  knows  not  what :  insatiable,  insane, 
a  god  with  a  muck-rake.  Thus,  at  least,  looking  in  the  bosom 
of  the  miser,  consideration  detects  the  poet  in  the  full  tide  of 
life,  with  more,  indeed,  of  the  poetic  fire  than  usually  goes  to 
epics  ;  and  tracing  that  mean  man  about  his  cold  hearth,  and 
to  and  fro  in  his  discomfortable  house,  spies  within  him  a  blaz- 
ing bonfire  of  delight.  And  so  with  others,  who  do  not  live 
by  bread  alone,  but  by  some  cherished  and  perhaps  fantastic 
pleasure ;  who  are  meat  salesmen  to  the  external  eye,  and  possi- 
bly to  themselves  are  Shakespeares,  Napoleons,  or  Beethovens  ; 
who  have  not  one  virtue  to  rub  against  another  in  the  field  of 
active  life,  and  yet  perhaps,  in  the  life  of  contemplation,  sit 
with  the  saints.  We  see  them  on  the  street,  and  we  can  count 
their  buttons ;  but  heaven  knows  in  what  they  pride  them- 
selves !    heaven  knows  where  they  have  set  their  treasure  ! 


.  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  38 1 

There  is  one  fable  that  touches  very  near  the  quick  of  Hfe  : 
the  fable  of  the  monk  who  passed  into  the  woods,  heard  a  bird 
break  into  song,  hearkened  for  a  trill  or  two,  and  found  him- 
self on  his  return  a  stranger  at  his  convent  gates  ;  for  he  had 
been  absent  fifty  years,  and  of  all  his  comrades  there  survived 
but  one  to  recognise  him.  It  is  not  only  in  the  woods  that 
this  enchanter  carols,  though  perhaps  he  is  native  there.  He 
sings  in  the  most  doleful  places.  The  miser  hears  him  and 
l^huckles,  and  the  days  are  moments.  With  no  more  apparatus 
than  an  ill-smelling  lantern  I  have  evoked  him  on  the  naked 
links.  All  life  that  is  not  merely  mechanical  is  spun  out  of 
two  strands  :  seeking  for  that  bird  and  hearing  him.  And  it  is 
just  this  that  makes  life  so  hard  to  value,  and  the  delight  of 
each  so  incommunicable.  And  just  a  knowledge  of  this,  and 
a  remembrance  of  those  fortunate  hours  in  which  the  bird  has 
sung  to  us,  that  fills  us  with  such  wonder  when  we  turn  the 
pages  of  the  realist.  There,  to  be  sure,  we  find  a  picture  of 
life  in  so  far  as  it  consists  of  mud  and  of  old  iron,  cheap  de- 
sires and  cheap  fears,  that  which  we  are  ashamed  to  remember 
and  that  which  we  are  careless  whether  we  forget ;  but  of  the 
note  of  that  time-devouring  nightingale  we  hear  no  news. 

The  case  of  these  writers  of  romance  is  most  obscure.  They 
have  been  boys  and  youths ;  they  have  lingered  outside  the 
window  of  the  beloved,  who  was  then  most  probably  writing  to 
some  one  else ;  they  have  sat  before  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  felt 
themselves  mere  continents  of  congested  poetry,  not  one  line 
of  which  would  flow  ;  they  have  walked  alone  in  the  woods, 
they  have  walked  in  cities  under  the  countless  lamps  ;  they 
have  been  to  sea,  they  have  hated,  they  have  feared,  they  have 
longed  to  knife  a  man,  and  maybe  done  it ;  the  wild  taste  of 
hfe  has  stung  their  palate.  Or,  if  you  deny  them  all  the  rest, 
one  pleasure  at  least  they  have  tasted  to  the  full  —  their  books 
are  there  to  prove  it  —  the  keen  pleasure  of  successful  literary 
composition.  And  yet  they  fill  the  globe  with  volumes,  whose 
cleverness  inspires  me  with  despairing  admiration,  and  whose 
consistent  falsity  to  all  I  care  to  call  existence,  with  despairing 


382  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

wrath.  If  I  had  no  better  hope  than  to  continue  to  revolve 
among  the  dreary  and  petty  businesses,  and  to  be  moved  by 
the  paltry  hopes  and  fears  with  which  they  surround  and  ani- 
mate their  heroes,  I  declare  I  would  die  now.  But  there  has 
never  an  hour  of  mine  gone  quite  so  dully  yet ;  if  it  were  spent 
waiting  at  a  railway  junction,  I  would  have  some  scattering 
thoughts,  I  could  count  some  grains  of  memory,  compared  to 
which  the  whole  of  one  of  these  romances  seems  but  dross. 

These  writers  would  retort  (if  I  take  them  properly)  that 
this  was  very  true  ;  that  it  was  the  same  with  themselves  and 
other  persons  of  (what  they  call)  the  artistic  temperament ; 
that  in  this  we  were  exceptional,  and  sliould  apparently  be 
ashamed  of  ourselves  ;  but  that  our  works  must  deal  exclu- 
sively with  (what  they  call)  the  average  man,  who  was  a  pro- 
digious dull  fellow,  and  quite  dead  to  all  but  the  paltriest 
considerations.  I  accept  the  issue.  We  can  only  know  others 
by  ourselves.  The  artistic  temperament  (a  plague  on  the  ex- 
pression !)  docs  not  make  us  different  from  our  fellow-men, 
or  it  would  make  us  incapable  of  writing  novels ;  and  the 
average  man  (a  murrain  on  the  word !)  is  just  like  you  and 
me,  or  he  would  not  be  average.  It  was  Whitman  who 
stamped  a  kind  of  Birmingham  sacredness  upon  the  latter 
phrase  ;  but  Whitman  knew  very  well,  and  showed  very  nobly, 
that  the  average  man  was  full  of  joys  and  full  of  a  poetry  of 
his  own.  And  this  harping  on  life's  dulness  and  man's  mean- 
ness is  a  loud  profession  of  incompetence ;  it  is  one  of  two 
things  :  the  cry  of  the  blind  eye,  /  cannot  sec,  or  the  complaint 
of  the  dumb  tongue,  /  cannot  nttcr.  To  draw  a  life  without 
delights  is  to  prove  I  have  not  realized  it.  To  picture  a  man 
without  some  sort  of  poetry  —  well,  it  goes  near  to  prove  my 
case,  for  it  shows  an  author  may  have  little  enough.  To  see 
Dancer  only  as  a  dirty,  old,  small-minded,  impotently  fuming 
man,  in  a  dirty  house,  besieged  by  Harrow  boys,  and  probably 
beset  by  small  attorneys,  is  to  show  myself  as  keen  an  observer 
as  .  .  .  the  Harrow  boys.  But  these  young  gentlemen  (with  a 
more  becoming  modesty)  were  content  to  pluck  Dancer  by  the 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


O'^O 


coat-tails  ;  they  did  not  suppose  they  had  surprised  his  secret 
or  could  put  him  living  in  a  book  :  and  it  is  there  my  error 
would  have  lain.  Or  say  that  in  the  same  romance  —  I  con- 
tinue to  call  these  books  romances,  in  the  hope  of  giving  pain 
—  say  that  in  the  same  romance,  which  now  begins  really  to 
take  shape,  I  should  leave  to  speak  of  Dancer,  and  follow- 
instead  the  Harrow  boys  ;  and  say  that  I  came  on  some  such 
business  as  that  of  my  lantern-bearers  on  the  links  ;  and  de- 
scribed the  boys  as  very  cold,  spat  upon  by  flurries  of  rain, 
and  drearily  surrounded,  all  of  which  they  were ;  and  their 
talk  as  silly  and  indecent,  which  it  certainly  was.  I  might 
upon  these  lines,  and  had  I  Zola's  genius,  turn  out,  in  a  page 
or  so,  a  gem  of  literary  art,  render  the  lantern-light  with 
the  touches  of  a  master,  and  lay  on  the  indecency  with  the 
ungrudging  hand  of  love ;  and  when  all  was  done,  what  a  tri- 
umph would  my  picture  be  of  shallowness  and  dulness  !  how 
it  would  have  missed  the  point !  how  it  would  have  belied  the 
boys !  To  the  ear  of  the  stenographer,  the  talk  is  merely  silly 
and  indecent ;  but  ask  the  boys  themselves,  and  they  are  dis- 
cussing (as  it  is  highly  proper  they  should)  the  possibilities  of 
existence.  To  the  eye  of  the  observer  they  are  wet  and  cold 
and  drearily  surrounded  ;  but  ask  themselves,  and  they  are  in 
the  heaven  of  a  recondite  pleasure,  the  ground  of  which-  is  an 


ill-smelling  lantern. 


Ill 


For,  to  repeat,  the  ground  of  a  man's  joy  is  often  hard  to 
hit.  It  may  hinge  at  times  upon  a  mere  accessory,  like  the 
lantern ;  it  may  reside,  like  Dancer's,  in  the  mysterious  inwards 
of  psychology.  It  may  consist  with  perpetual  failure,  and  find 
exercise  in  the  continued  chase.  It  has  so  little  bond  with  ex- 
ternals (such  as  the  observer  scribbles  in  his  note-book)  that  it 
may  even  touch  them  not ;  and  the  man's  true  life,  for  which 
he  consents  to  live,  lie  altogether  in  the  field  of  fancy.  The 
clergyman,  in  his  spare  hours,  may  be  winning  battles,  the 
farmer  sailing  ships,  the  banker  reaping  triumph  in  the  arts  : 


384  THE   ENGLISH   FAAHLIAR   ESSAY 

all  leading  another  life,  plying  another  trade  from  that  they 
chose ;    like   the   poet's   housebuilder,   who,   after  all   is   cased 

in  stone, 

By  his  fireside,  as  impotent  fancy  prompts, 
Rebuilds  it  to  his  Hiving. 

In  such  a  case  the  poetry  runs  underground.  The  observer 
(poor  soul,  with  his  documents  !)  is  all  abroad.  For  to  look  at 
the  man  is  but  to  court  deception.  We  shall  see  the  trunk 
from  which  he  draws  his  nourishment ;  but  he  himself  is  above 
and  abroad  in  the  green  dome  of  foliage,  hummed  through  by 
winds  and  nested  in  by  nightingales.  And  the  true  realism 
were  that  of  the  poets,  to  climb  up  after  him  like  a  squirrel, 
and  catch  some  glimpse  of  the  heaven  for  which  he  lives. 
And  the  true  realism,  always  and  everywhere,  is  that  of  the 
poets  :  to  find  out  where  joy  resides  and  give  it  a  voice  far 
beyond  singing. 

For  to  miss  the  joy  is  to  miss  all.  In  the  joy  of  the  actors 
lies  the  sense  of  any  action.  That  is  the  explanation,  that  the 
excuse.  To  one  who  has  not  the  secret  of  the  lanterns,  the 
scene  upon  the  links  is  meaningless.  And  hence  the  haunting 
and  truly  spectral  unreality  of  realistic  books.  Hence,  when 
we  read  the  English  realists,  the  incredulous  wonder  with 
which  we  observe  the  hero's  constancy  under  the  submerging 
tide  of  dulness,  and  how  he  bears  up  with  his  jibbing  sweet- 
heart, and  endures  the  chatter  of  idiot  girls,  and  stands  by  his 
whole  unfeatured  wilderness  of  an  existence,  instead  of  seek- 
ing relief  in  drink  or  foreign  travel.  Hence,  in  the  French, 
in  that  meat-market  of  middle-aged  sensuality,  the  disgusted 
surprise  with  which  we  see  the  hero  drift  sidelong,  and  prac- 
tically quite  untempted,  into  every  description  of  misconduct 
and  dishonour.  In  each,  we  miss  the  personal  poetry,  the 
enchanted  atmo'sphere,  that  rainbow  work  of  fancy  that  clothes 
what  is  naked  and  seems  to  ennoble  what  is  base  ;  in  each, 
life  falls  dead  like  dough,  instead  of  soaring  away  like  a  bal- 
loon into  the  colours  of  the  sunset ;  each  is  true,  each  incon- 
ceivable ;  for  no  man  lives  in  the  external  truth,  among  salts 


ROBERT  LOUIS  S'l'F.VENSON 


j'^3 


and  acids,  but   in   tlic  warm,   pliantasmagoric  chamber  of  his 
brain,  with  the  painted  windows  and  the  storied  walls. 

Of  this  falsity  we  have  had  a  recent  exanfple  from  a  man 
who  knows  far  better  —  Tolstoi's  Poivcrs  of  Darkness.  Here 
is  a  piece  full  of  force  and  truth,  yet  cjuite  untrue.  For  before 
Mikita  was  led  into  so  dire  a  situation  he  was  tempted,  and 
temptations  are  beautiful  at  least  in  part ;  and  a  work  which 
dwells  on  the  ugliness  of  crime  and  gives  no  hint  of  any  love- 
liness in  the  temptation,  sins  against  the  modesty  of  life,  and 
even  when  a  Tolstoi  writes  it,  sinks  to  melodrama.  The  peas- 
ants are  not  understood ;  they  saw  their  life  in  fairer  colours  ; 
even  the  deaf  girl  was  clothed  in  poetry  for  Mikita,  or  he  had 
never  fallen.  And  so,  once  again,  even  an  (31d  Bailey  melo- 
drama, without  some  brightness  of  poetry  and  lustre  of  exis- 
tence, falls  into  the  inconceivable  and  ranks  with  fairv  tales. 

IV 

In  nobler  books  we  are  moved  with  something  like  the 
emotions  of  life  ;  and  this  emotion  is  very  variously  provoked. 
We  are  so  moved  when  Levine  labours  in  the  field,  when 
Andre  sinks  beyond  emotion,  when  Richard  Feverel  and  Lucy 
Desborough  meet  beside  the  river,  when  Anton)',  "  not 
cowardly,  puts  off  his  helmet,"  when  Kent  has  infinite  pity  on 
the  dying  Lear,  when,  in  Dostoieffsky's  Despised  and  Rejected, 
the  uncomplaining  hero  drains  his  cup  of  suffering  and  virtue. 
These  are  notes  that  please  tlie  great  heart  of  man.  Not  only 
love,  and  the  fields,  and  the  bright  face  of  danger,  but  sacrifice 
and  death  and  unmerited  suffering  humbly  supported,  touch 
in  us  the  win  of  the  poetic.  We  love  to  think  of  them,  we 
long  to  tiy  them,  we  are  humbly  hopeful  that  we  ma}-  prove 
heroes  also. 

We  have  heard,  perhaps,  too  much  of  lesser  matters.  Here 
is  the  door,  here  is  the  open  air.    l/nr  in  antiquani  silvavi. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 


I.    GENERAL  WORKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH    FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  only  book  treating  the  whole  development  of  the  English  essay  in 
anything  like  a  detailed  way  is  Hugh  Walker's  recently  published  Eni^lisli 
Essay  and  Essayists  (The  Channels  of  English  Literature,  E.  P.  Dutton 
&;  Co.,  191 5).  Though  rather  a  series  of  portraits  of  individual  essayists 
than  a  real  history  of  the  genre,  Professor  W'alker's  volume  contains  much 
suggestive  commentary,  as  well  as  many  of  the  essential  facts.  Shorter 
g'eneral  accounts,  valuable  more  for  suggestions  than  for  detailed  infor- 
mation, are  Edmund  Gosse's  in  the  eleventh  edition  of  the  Encyclopa"dia 
Britannica,  and  J.  H.  Lobban's  in  E/i<^lish  Essays  (The  Warwick  Library, 
London,  1902).  Useful  articles  on  the  principal  English  essayists,  accom- 
panied by  bibliographies,  will  be  found  in  the  DictioiuDy  of  National 
BiograpJiy. 

II.    MONTAIGNE   AND   THE   BEGINNINGS   OF  THE 
ESSAY    IN   ENGLAND 

I.  Texts.  The  texts  necessary  for  the  study  of  the  essay  in  this 
period  are,  with  a  few  exceptions,  easily  accessible.  French  editions  of 
Montaigne's  Essais  abound ;  perhaps  the  best,  pending  the  completion  of 
the  magnificent  I'Mition  Municipale  of  M.  Fortunat  .Strowski,  are  those 
of  Dezeimeris  and  Barkhausen  (for  the  Essais  of  1580)  and  of  Motheau 
and  Jouaust  (for  the  Essais  of  1 588  and  i  595).  Of  the  English  translations, 
Florio's  is  obtainable  in  the  Tudor  Translations  (3  vols.,  1893)  with  an 
introduction  by  George  Saintsbury,  in  the  Temple  Classics  (6  vols.,  1897), 
and  in  Everyman's  Library  (3  vols.) ;  Cotton's  (as  revised  by  William  and 
W.  C.  Hazlitt)  in  Bohn's  Popular  Library  (3  vols.,  1913).  The  student 
interested  in  Montaigne's  sources  and  models  will  find  in  certain  chapters 
of  Sir  Thomas  Elyot's  Goi/ernotir  (in  Everyman's  Library)  very  good  ex- 
amples of  sixteenth-century  leqons  morales.  Accessible  also  in  Everyman's 
Library  are  selections  from  Plutarch's  Aforalia,  in  the  early  seventeenth- 
century   rendering    of    Philemon    Holland. The    standard    edition   of 

387 


388  THE  ENGLISH   FAMH.TAR  ESSAY 

Bacon's  Essays  is  that  of  James  Speckling  in  \'ol.  Yl  of  T/ic  Jl'or/cs  of 
Francis  Bacon,  collected  and  edited  by  Spcdding,  Ellis,  and  Heath  (new 
edition,  London,  1890).  The  basis  of  this  edition,  as  of  nearly  all  modern 
reprints,  is  the  third,  or  1625,  text  of  the  Essays;  the  editor,  however,  gives 
in  an  Appendix  the  two  earlier  texts  of  1597  and  161  2,  thus  furnishing  all 
the  necessary  material  for  a  critical  study  of  Bacon's  development  as  an  es- 
sayist. The  same  material,  in  a  somewhat  more  scholarly  and  usable  form, 
is  also  accessible  in  Edward  Arber's  Harmony  of  the  Essays,  etc.  of  Francis 
Bacon  (English  Reprints,  Constable,  Westminster,  1895).  Of  the  innumer- 
able other  editions  of  Bacon,  that  of  Mary  Augusta  Scott  (Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  1 90S)  deserves  particular  mention  for  its  full  and  helpful  explanatory 

notes. Cowley's  Essays  are  reprinted  from  the  folio  of  1668  by  A.  R. 

Waller  in  the  Cambridge  English  Classics  (Cambridge,  1906).  A  good 
inexpensive  edition  is  that  of  Alfred  B.   Cough  {The  I'lssays  and  otlicr 

Prose  W^ritings,  Oxford  Press,  191 5). There  are  no  complete  modern 

editions  of  Temple.  "An  Essay  upon  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Learning" 
and  "  Of  Poetry  "  are  accessible  in  J.  E.  Spingarn's  Critical  Essays  of  tJie 
SeTenteenth  Century  (Vol.  IH,  Oxford,  1909);  for  the  others,  the  reader 
must  go  to  some  one  of,  the  various  collected  editions  of  Temple's  Maori's 

published  between  his  death  and  the  early  nineteenth  century. Of  the 

less  prominent  or  influential  essayists  of  this  period,  Cornwallis,  Robert 
Johnson,  Clarendon,  Collier,  and  I3uckingham  arc  obtainable  only  in  early 
editions  ;  Felltham's  Feso/7'es  can  be  read  in  a  reprint  by  Oliphant  Smeaton 
(Temple  Classics),  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Religio  Medici,  in  numerous 
modern  editions,  the  most  valuable  perhaps  being  that  by  W.  A.  Greenhill 
(The  Macmillan  Company,  1881),  and  the  least  expensive  perhaps  that  in  the 

Temple  Classics  (1S96). A  good  selection  of  English  "characters"  is 

given  by  Henry  Morley  in  Character  Writings  of  the  Seventeenth  Century 
(The  Carisbrooke  Library,  London,  1891).  Of  La  Bruyere,  the  best  French 
edition  is  that  in  the  (irands  Ecrivains  series  (ed.  G.  Servois,  Paris,  1865); 
the  best  English  translation,  that  of  Van  Laun  (London,  1885). 

2.  Studies.  There  exists  no  adequate  single  account  of  the  early  history 
of  the  English  essay.  Certain  pages  in  the  Cambridge  History  of  English 
Literature  (particularly  Vol.  IV,  chap,  xvi,  and  Vol.  VIII,  chap,  xvi)  fur- 
nish a  few  facts,  but  for  more  detailed  information  one  must  have  recourse 
to  special  monographs  and  articles.  Only  the  most  notable  of  these  can  be 
mentioned  here.  For  all  that  relates  to  Montaigne  and  the  origins  of  the 
essay  the  authoritative  work  is  M.  Pierre  Villey's  Les  Sources  ct  P cvolutian 
des  Essais  de  Montaigne  (2  vols.,  Hachette,  Paris,  1908).  The  main  results 
of  this  study,  together  with  much   illustrative  material,  are  presented  in 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  3S9 

briefer  compass  in  the  same  writer's  J\fontaii:;ne :  textes  cJioisis  et  coni- 
incnics  (Plon-Nourrit,  Paris,  n.d.).  Other  studies  by  Villey  concern  Mon- 
taigne's influence  in  England.  See  especially  "  Montaigne  en  Angleterre,'' 
in  Rctnie  des  deux  viondcs  (1913),  pp.  1 15-150,  and  "  Montaigne  a-t-il  eu 
quelque  influence  sur  Francois  Bacon,"  in  Revue  de  la  Renaissance,  t.  XII 
(191 1),  I  21-158,  185-203;  t.  XIII  (1912),  21-46,  61-82  —  the  latter  con- 
taining by  far  the  best  exposition  of  Bacon's  development  as  an  essayist 
that  has  yet  appeared.  The  chapter  on  Montaigne  in  A.  H.  Upham's  The 
Freiicli  Iiijluciice  in  English  Literature  fro)n  the  Accession  of  Elizabeth 
to  the  Restoration  (New  York,  1908),  while  for  the  most  part  superseded 
by  Mlley's  later  work,  nevertheless  deserves  to  be  consulted  for  its  treat- 
ment of  Montaigne's  influence  on  Cornwallis,  Browne,  and  other  minor 
writers.  Other  sources  of  information  or  ideas  on  the  essay  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  are  Joseph  Texte's  "  La  descendance  de  Montaigne :  Sir 
Thomas  Browne"  in  Etudes  de  litterature  europeenne  (Paris,  1898), 
Charles  Lamb's  "  The  Genteel  Style  in  Writing  "  (on  Sir  William  Temple), 
in  Last  Essays  of  Elia,  and  Professor  E.  C.  Baldwin's  studies  of  the  de- 
velopment of  character-writing  (see  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language 
Association,  Vols.  XVIII  and  XIX). 

III.    THE    PERIODICAL  ESSAY   OF   THE   EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY 

I.  Texts.  The  British  Essayists  of  A.  Chalmers  (1803,  and  various 
later  editions)  contains  reprints  of  the  following  eighteenth-century  peri- 
odicals :  Taller,  Spectator,  Guardian,  Rambler,  Adventurer,  World, 
Connoisseiir,  Idle?;  Mirror,  Lounger,  Obseri'er,  and  Looker-on  —  in  a 
word,  of  nearly  all  the  more  important  or  influential  collections.  Many 
essays  not  appearing  in  these  papers  may  be  found  in  Nathan  Drake's 
The  Gleaner  :  a  series  of  Pe?'iodical  Essays ;  selected  and  arratiged front 
scarce  or  neglected  volumes  (4  vols.,  London,  181 1).  Of  the  periodicals 
which  preceded  the  Taller,  such  as  the  Athenian  Mercuty  and   Defoe's 

Re^'iew,  there  are  unfortunately  no  modern  reprints. The  best  texts  of 

the  more  important  essay-papers  are  to  be  found,  not  in  the  general  col- 
lections mentioned  above,  but  in  separate  editions.  The  standard  edition 
of  the  Taller — an  edition  by  no  means  critical,  however  —  is  that  of 
G.  A.  Aitken  (4  vols.,  London,  1898-1899).  The  Spectator  has  been  ad- 
mirably edited,  with  respect  to  both  text  and  commentary,  by  G.  Gregory 
Smith  (8  vols.,  London,  1 897-1898  ;  practically  the  same  work  is  reprinted 
in  four  volumes  in  Everyman's  Library).    Fielding's  essays  are  accessible 


390  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

in  his  Works  (ed.  Leslie  Stephen,  Vol.  VI,  London,  1S82),  and  a  critical 
edition  of  his  Cove7it-Ga7-den  Journal  has  recently  been  announced  by  the 
Yale  University  Press.  Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the  Wo7id  may  be  read 
in  an  excellent  but  inexpensive  reprint  by  Austin  Dobson  (2  vols.,  the 
Temple  Classics,  1900).    The  same  series  contains  also  his  Bee  and  other 

Essays. Of  the  numerous  volumes  of  selections  of  eighteenth-century 

essays  two  only  need  be  mentioned,  for  the  excellence  of  their  editing : 
Austin  Dobson's  Steele :  Selections  from  the  Taller,  Spectator  and 
Gtiardian  (Oxford,  1885  ;  2d  edition,  1896),  and  Wendell  and  Greenough's 
Selections  from  the  U'ritini^s  of  Joseph  Addison  (Ciinn  and  Company, 
Boston,  1905). 

2.  Studies.  Historical  study  of  the  eighteenth-century  periodical  essay 
may  be  said  to  have  begun  with  Nathan  Drake,  whose  Essays  .  .  .  illustra- 
tive of  the  Taller.,  Spectator,  and  Guardian,  and  Essays  .  .  .  illustrative 
of  the  Rambler,  Adventurer,  and  Idler  were  published  in  1805  and 
1 809-1810  respectively.  Despite  their  early  date,  these  works  are  still 
valuable  sources  of  information,  particularly  of  a  bibliographical  sort,  on 
the  eighteenth-century  periodicals.  They  need,  however,  to  be  supple- 
mented by  more  recent  studies,  such  as  A.  Beljame's  section  on  the  early 
periodicals  in  his  Le  Public  et  les  Hommes  dc  lettres  en  Angleterre  au 
dix-huitieme  siecle  (Paris,  1881),  Leslie  Stephen's  article  on  Addison  in 
the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  (1885),  G.  A.  Aitken's  account  of 
the  Tatler  and  Spectator  in  his  Life  of  Richard  Steele  (1889;  see  espe- 
cially Vol.  I,  pp.  239-258  and  309-321),  Lawrence  Lewis's  The  Adver- 
tisements  of  the  Spectator  (xgoc);  valuable  for  the  understanding  it  gives 
of  some  of  the  material  conditions  amid  which  the  eighteenth-century  essay 
took  form),  and  Harold  V.  Routh's  very  suggestive  study  of  Addison  and 
Steele  in  the  Ca7nhridge  History  of  English  Literature  (Vol.  IX,  chap,  ii, 
191 3).  Readers  in  search  of  appreciative  comment  on  the  eighteenth- 
century  essayists  will  naturally  turn  to  the  lives  of  Addison  by  Dr.  Johnson 
and  Macaulay,  to  Thackeray's  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth 
Centiiiy,  and  to  Hazlitt's  finely  discriminating  lecture  "  On  the  Periodical 
Essayists"  in  his  English  Comic  Writers. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  391 

IV.    THE   NEW   MAGAZINE    ESSAY   OF  THE    NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 

1.  Texts.  The  serious  student  of  the  nineteenth-century  essay  will  find 
it  indispensable  to  go  directly  to  the  magazines  in  which  the  work  of  most 
of  the  essayists  of  this  period  originally  appeared.  The  greater  number  of 
these  are  accessible  in  any  large  library.  For  ordinary  purposes,  however, 
the  more  recent  collected  editions  are  sufficient  and  possibly  preferable. 
Such  are  E.  V.  Lucas's  edition  of  The  IVorAs  of  Chai'les  and  Mary  Lavih 
(7  vols.,  Methuen  &  Co.,  London,  1 903-1 905),  Alfred  Ainger's  edition  of  the 
Essays  of  Elia  (Macmillan  &  Co.,  London,  1SS3),  TJie  Collected  W^orks  of 
IVilliam  Hazlitt,  edited  by  A.  R.  Waller  and  Arnold  Glover  (13  vols.,  J.  M. 
Dent,  London,  1902-1906),  The  Collected  Writings  of  Thotiias  De  Qitiiicey, 
edited  by  David  Masson  (14  vols.,  London,  1889),  the  Biographical  edition 
of  Thackeray  (13  vols..  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York,  1898- 1899),  and 
the  Thistle  edition  of  Stevenson  (27  vols.,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New 
York).  No  complete  edition  of  Leigh  Hunt  has  yet  appeared;  a  helpful 
guide  to  his  widely  scattered  writings  is  Alexander  Ireland's  List  of  the 
]]'riti)tgs  of  William  Hazlitt  and  Leigh  Hunt,  etc.  (John  Russell  Smith, 
London,  1868);  and  a  fairly  representative  selection  of  his  essays,  with  a 
good  introduction,  is  obtainable  in  the  World's  Classics  (Oxford  Press). 
Other  selections  from  his  work  are  contained  in  The  Indicator  and  The 
Companion  (2  vols.,  Henry  Colburn,  London,  1834),  and  in  Men.,  ll'omen, 
and  Books  and  Table-Talk  (both  published  by  Smith,  Elder  «&  Co.,  London). 
Inexpensive  reprints  of  the  principal  essay  collections  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  may  be  had  in  the  old  Bohn  Library  (George  Bell  &  Sons), 
Everyman's  Library  (E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company),  the  World's  Classics 
(Oxford  Press),  and  the  Temple  Classics  (E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company). 

2.  Studies.  In  addition  to  the  chapters  on  the  essayists  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  in  Walker's  English  Essay  and  Essayists,  the  reader  may 
be  referred  to  Oliver  Elton's  A  Suri'ey  of  English  Lite7-atiire.,  lySo-iSjo 
(London,  191 2),  and  to  C.  T.  Winchester's  A  Group  of  English  Essayists 
of  the  Early  Nineteenth  Century  (The  Macmillan  Company,  1910).  Both 
of  these  works  deal  with  the  period  during  which  the  new  essay  was  taking 
form,  and  present  more  or  less  satisfactory  studies  of  Lamb.  Hazlitt,  Hunt, 
De  Ouincey,  and  "  Christopher  North.''  So  far  there  has  been  no  serious 
extended  treatment  of  the  essay  in  the  middle  and  later  years  of  the  cen- 
tury.   A  full  list  of  the  critical  articles  which  the  essayists  of  this  period 

have  inspired  would  greatly  exceed  the  limits  of  this  note.    The  following 
are  perhaps  the  most  helpful  and  suggestive :   Hazlitt's  papers  on  Lamb 


392  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

and  Hunt  in  Tlie  Spirit  of  the  Age,  Walter  Pater's  essay  on  Lamb  in 
Appixciations,  W.  E.  Henley's  study  of  Hazlitt  (printed  as  an  introduction 
to  the  Waller-Glover  edition),  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
(1895),  and  Leslie  Stephen's  article  on  the  same  writer  in  his  Studies  of  a 
Biographer  (Vo\.  IV,  1902),  Lhe  lives  of  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  De  Ouincey,  and 
Thackeray  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  series  should  also  be  consulted, 
as  should  Cosmo  Monkhouse's  Leigh  Hunt  (Great  Writers,  1893)  and 
Graham  Balfour's  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stei'enso//  (2  vols.,  1901).  In  the 
Letters  of  Lamb  and  Stevenson  and  in  Hunt's  ^lutobiograpJiy  may  be 
found  excellent  commentary  on  the  work  of  those  writers  as  essayists. 


NOTES 

MICHEL  DE   MONTAIGNE 

With  the  exception  of  "  The  Author  to  the  Reader,"  which  is  given  in 
Florio's  version,  the  texts  of  Montaigne  in  the  present  collection  are  based 
upon  Charles  Cotton's  translation  of  1685  as  revised  successively  by  William 
Hazlitt  and  William  Carew  Hazlitt  (Reeves  and  Turner,  London,  1902). 
Whatever  advantages  there  might  have  been  from  a  historical  point  of  view 
in  reproducing  either  Florio's  rendering  or  the  original  text  of  Cotton  are 
more  than  offset  by  the  superior  accuracy  and  intelligibility  of  the  Hazlitt 
revision. 

The  Author  to  the  Reader 
Montaigne's  preface  to  the  first  edition  of  his  Essais  (1580). 
Page  i. 

I .  those  nations  :  the  savages  of  the  New  World,  who  were  thought  by 
many  of  Montaigne's  contemporaries  to  possess  virtues  sadly  lacking  in 
civilized  Europeans.  Montaigne  himself  seems  to  have  shared  this  view, 
at  least  in  part,  and  in  general  manifested  a  keen  interest  in  the  newly  dis- 
covered barbarians.  See  his  essays  entided  "  Of  Custom,"  "  Of  Cannibals," 
and  "  Of  Coaches,"  and,  on  the  whole  subject  of  the  attitude  of  sixteenth- 
century  Frenchmen  to  the  American  natives,  the  very  interesting  recent 
work  of  Gilbert  Chinard,  L" Kxotisine  aniericain  daits  la  litteratiire  fnvt- 
i^aise  an  XVP  sicclc  (Paris,  191 1). 

Of  Sorrow 

The  essay  "  De  la  tristesse  "  first  appeared  as  Chapter  II  of  Book  I  in 
the  edition  of  1580.  The  date  of  its  composition  is  fixed  by  Villey  {Les 
Sojtrces  et  revolution  des  Essais  a'e  Montaigne,  I,  337)  at  about  1572  ;  it 
belongs,  therefore,  to  the  earliest  period  of  Montaigne's  literary  career, 
of  which  it  is  thoroughly  typical. 

Page  2. 

I.  the  Stoics  :  a  school  of  ancient  philosophers,  founded  by  Zeno  about 
308  B.C.    In  general,  they  taught  that  the  highest  virtue  consists  in  firmness, 

393 


394  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

resolution,  and  an  insensibility  to  joy  and  sorrow.  At  the  time  of  the 
composition  of  this  essay  iVIontaigne's  own  thinlcing  was  largely  colored 
by  Stoic  doctrines. 

2.  Psammitichus :  or  Psammcnitus :  the  story  is  told  by  Herodotus 
(iii,  1 4),  but  Montaigne  may  have  read  it  in  one  of  the  numerous  contem- 
porary collections  of  moral  "  examples." 

Page  3. 

3.  the  ancient  painter:  this  "example,"  like  the  last,  Montaigne  prob- 
ably borrowed  from  some  sixteenth-century  compilation.  Ancient  authorities 
for  the  story  were  Cicero  {Orator  xxii)  and  Pliny  (^Historia  Ahitiwalis 
XXXV,  10). 

4.  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  :  an  allusion  to  the  famous  Greek  legend 
in  which  Agamemnon,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Delphic  oracle,  prepared  to 
offer  his  daughter  as  a  sacrifice  to  appease  the  wrath  of  Artemis. 

5.  Diriguisse  malis  :  Ovid,  MetaniorpJioses  vi,  303  :  "  petrified  by  her 
misfortunes.'' 

6.  Et  via  vix  tandem  voci  laxata  dolore  est :  Virgil,  yEneid  xi,  151: 
"  and  at  length  and  with  difficulty  a  way  is  opened  by  grief  for  speech." 

t*AGE  4. 

7.  Chi  puo  dir  com'  egli  arde,  e  in  picciol  fuoco :  Petrarch,  Sonetti  I, 

cxviii : 

He  that  can  say  how  he  doth  fry,' 

In  petty-gentle  flames  doth  lie.  —  Florio's  translation. 

8.  Innamoratos  :   Florio  translates  simply  "  lovers." 

9.  Misero  quod  omneis,  etc.  :  Catullus  51,  5-1  2  :  "  And  this  steals  all  my 
senses  from  me.  For  as  soon  as  I  see  thee,  Lesbia,  I  have  not  a  word  that 
I  can  say,  for  very  frenzy.  My  tongue  is  numbed ;  a  fine  flame  flows  in 
and  through  my  limbs ;  my  ears,  too,  are  filled  with  ringing,  and  my  eyes 
are  mantled  in  double  darkness." 

10.  Curae  leves  loquuntur,  ingentes  stupent:  Seneca,  Hippolytus^  1.  607: 
"  Light  griefs  speak;  heavy  sorrows  remain  silent." 

Page  5. 

11.  Ut  me  conspexit  venientem,  etc.  :  Virgil,  yEneid  iii,  306:  "As  she 
saw  me  approaching  and  beheld  with  surprise  the  Trojan  arms  about 
me,  frightened  with  so  great  a  marvel,  she  fainted  at  the  very  sight : 
the  warmth  of  life  forsook  her  limbs,  she  sank  down,  and  after  a  long 
time  with  difficulty  she  spoke." 

1 2.  the  examples  of  the  Roman  lady,  etc.  :  it  is  unnecessary  to  indi- 
cate for  these  anecdotes  their  sources  in  ancient  literature,  for  Montaigne 


NOTES  395 

probably  took  them  already  collected  from  one  of  the  most  popular  com- 
pilations of  the  sixteenth  centur)',  the  Officina  of  l^avisius  Textor. 

13.  Pope  Leo  X:  the  pontificate  of  Leo  X  extended  from  1513  to  i52r. 
The  source  of  the  "example"  was  probably  (juicciardini's  (14S3-1540J 
Sto/Iu  cf  Italia^  a  history  much  admired  and  quoted  by   Montaigne. 

Of  Repentance 

This  essay  was  first  published,  under  the  title  of  "  Du  repentir,"  in  the 
Essais  of  1588,  where  it  formed  Chapter  II  of  Book  III.  In  composition 
it  must  have  been  later  than  i  580,  though  its  exact  date  is  impossible  to 
determine.  It  has  all  the  distinguishing  qualities  of  the  essays  of  Montaigne's 
last  period.    See  the  Introduction  to  the  present  volume,  pp.  xv-xvi. 

I'ACiE  6. 

1.  Demades  :  quoted  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Deinosthenes. 

Page  8. 

2.  Malice  sucks  up,  etc.  :  a  translation  of  Seneca,  Epistola  81. 

Page  9. 

3.  Quae  fuerant  vitia,  mores  sunt :  Seneca,  EpisiolcE  39 :  "  What  were 
formerly  vices  are  now  fashions." 

4.  Tuo  tibi  judicio  est  utendum,  etc.  :  see  Cicero,  De  A'aiura  Deonun 
iii,  35:  "  You  must  use  your  own  judgment  .  .  .  The  weight  of  the  very 
conscience  of  vice  and  virtues  is  heavy  :  take  that  away,  and  all  is  down  " 
(Florio's  translation). 

Page  10. 

5.  Quae  mens  est  hodie,  etc.:  Horace,  Odes  iv,  10,  7:  "Why  had  I 
not  the  same  inclination,  when  I  was  young,  that  I  have  to-day,  or  why, 
when  I  am  so  disposed,  does  not  my  bloom  return  to  me  ?  " 

6.  Bias  :  an  early  Greek  philosopher  (fl.  sixth  century  B.C.),  one  of  the 
"  Seven  Sages."  The  apothegm  quoted  by  Montaigne  is  recorded  by 
Plutarch  in  his  Banquet  of  the  Seiieii  Sages. 

7.  Julius  Drusus  :  a  Roman  politician  (d.  cir.  log  B.C.);  his  real  name 
was  Marcus  Livius  Drusus. 

8.  Agesilaus  :  King  of  Sparta  from  399  to  361  B.C.  For  this  anecdote 
see  Plutarch,  Life  of  Agesilaus. 

Page  i  i. 

9.  Gascony  .  .  .  Guienne  :  Gascony  and  Guienne  formed  in  the  sixteenth 
century  a  single  "  government." 

10.  private  men,  says  Aristotle:   in  his  NiLomachean  Ethics  x,  7. 


396  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  12. 

II.  Tamerlane:  a  corruption  of  Timur-Lcng  ("  Timur  the  Lame"),  the 
name  of  a  Tartar  monarch  who  between  about  1370  and  1405  conquered 
Persia,  central  Asia,  and  a  large  part  of  India,  and  made  preparations  for 
an  invasion  of  China.  The  story  of  his  deeds,  told  and  retold  in  numerous 
popular  histories,  made  a  profound  impression  on  the  imagination  of 
western  Europe  in  the  sixteenth  century.  In  England,  a  year  before  this 
essay  was  published,  Marlowe  devoted  to  Tamerlane's  career  the  first  of 
his  great  tragedies.    See  also  Bacon's  essay  "  Of  Envy,"  above,  p.  36. 

I  2.  Erasmus  :  the  great  representative  of  humanism  in  northern  Europe, 
born  at  Rotterdam  probably  in  1466,  died  at  Basel  in  1536.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  Erasmus's  reputation  rested  to  a  very  large  extent  upon  his  Adagia 
(1600),  a  collection  of  "  sentences"  and  "  apothegms  "  from  ancient  writers  ; 
it  is  to  the  fame  of  this  work  that  Montaigne's  remark  applies. 

13.  Sic  ubi,  desuetae  silvis,  in  carcere  clausse,  etc.:  Lucan,  Pharsalia^ 
iv,  237:  "So  when  wild  beasts,  grown  unaccustomed  to  the  woods  and 
shut  up  in  cages,  grow  tame  and  lay  aside  their  threatening  look,  and  learn 
to  put  up  with  man,  if  but  a  drop  of  blood  comes  to  their  parched  mouths, 
their  ravenous  fury  returns  and  their  throats  swell,  reminded  by  the  taste 
of  blood ;  their  fury  rages  and  scarcely  stops  short  of  the  trembling  keeper." 

Page  14. 

14.  Armaignac :  a  district  in  southeastern  Gascony  not  far  distant  from 
Montaigne's  estates. 

Page  15. 

15.  the  Pythagorean  sect:  the  followers  of  Pythagoras  (cir.  582-cir. 
500  B.C.),  a  Greek  philosopher. 

Page  16. 

16.  Cato  :  Marcus  Porcius  Cato,  commonly  known  as  "The  Censor,"  a 
Roman  statesman  and  writer  (234-149  ji.c).  Montaigne's  allusion  refers 
to  the  severity  of  morals  for  which  he  was  noted. 

Page  17. 

17.  Phocion :  an  Athenian  statesman  and  general  (cir.  402-317  B.C.). 
The  anecdote  which  Montaigne  tells  of  him  he  probably  found  in  Plutarch's 
collection  of  apotlicgms. 

Page  18. 

1 8.  He,  who  said  of  old  :  Sophocles.  The  "  sentence  "  is  quoted  from 
Cicero,  De  Sencctnte  1 4. 


NOTES  397 

19.  Nee  tam  aversa,  etc.  :  Quinlilian,  Institiitio  o?'atorta,  v,  12  :  "  Nor 
will  Providence  ever  be  seen  so  hostile  to  her  own  work  that  impotence 
should  be  included  among  the  best  things." 

Pagk  I  g. 

20.  Antisthenes :  a  Greek  philosopher  (cir.  444-after  371  n.c).  The 
saying  quoted  by  Montaigne  is  to  be  found  in  Diogenes  Laertius,  Life 
of  Antisthenes. 

SIR   FRANCIS   BACON 

The  text  of  Uacon  is  that  of  The  W'oiics  (f  Francis  Bacon.,  edited  by 
Spedding,  Ellis,  and  Heath.  It  has  been  collated  throughout,  however, 
with  the  original  text  of  the  same  versions  as  printed  by  Arber  in  his 
Hannojty  of  the  Essays  (1895). 

Of  Studies 

As  a  means  of  illustrating  the  development  of  Bacon's  methods  of  com- 
position, this  essay  is  given  both  in  the  original  version  of  i  597  and  in  the 
final  revision  of  1625.  In  the  former  it  occupied  first  place  and  bore  the 
title  "  Of  Study  "  ;  in  the  latter  it  was  printed  as  No.  50. 

Page  23. 

r .  Abeunt  studia  in  mores  :  Ovid,  Heroides.,  xv,  83  :  "  Studies  have  an 
influence  and  operation  upon  the  manners  of  those  that  are  conversant  in 
them"  (Bacon's  paraphrase  in  The  Advanconent  of  Lea?ning,  Bk.  I). 

Page  24. 

2.  the  schoolmen :  the  philosophers  of  the  medieval  universities,  a 
prominent  feature  of  whose  method  was  a  reliance  on  fine  distinctions  be- 
tween terms.  Bacon  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  general  revolt  against 
their  philosophy  which  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

3.  cymini  sectores  :  literally  dividers  of  cumin-seed  ;  hair-splitters. 

Of  Empire 

The  essay  "  Of  Empire  "  appeared  first  in  a  manuscript  version  of  the 
Essays  written  between  1607  and  161 2;  it  was  first  printed  (as  No.  9)  in 
the  edition  of  161  2 :  it  was  reprinted,  with  numerous  additions,  as  No.  19 
in  the  edition  of  1625.  It  is  given  here  in  the  versions  of  161  2  and  1625. 
A  comparison  of  the  two  texts  will  enable  the  reader  to  verify  the  state- 
ments made  in  the  Introduction  regarding  the  evolution  of  Bacon's  con- 
ception and  practice  of  the  essav. 

I.  That  the  king's  heart  is  inscrutable  :  see  Proverbs  xxv,  3. 


398  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  25. 

2.  Alexander  the  Great  and  .  .  .  Charles  the  Fifth:  Alexander  (356- 
323  B.C.)  was  disappointed  at  being  turned  back  from  India  by  the  refusal 
of  his  soldiers  to  go  on.  Charles  the  Fifth  (i  500-1  558),  Emperor  of  the 
Holy  Roman  Empire,  abdicated  his  crown  in  favor  of  his  son  Philip  (1556) 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  vicinity  of  a  secluded  Spanish 
monastery. 

3.  temper  and  distemper :  in  the  old  physiology  "  temper "  meant  a 
proper  mixture  or  balance  of  elements  in  the  body  ;  "  distemper,''  a  depar- 
ture from  a  proper  mixture  and  a  consequent  disturbance. 

4.  The  answer  of  ApoUonius :  Apollonius  of  Tyana  (cir.  4  r,.{;.-cir.  97  a.d.) 
was  a  late  Greek 'philosopher  with  supposed  magical  powers.  His  reply  to 
A'espasian  (Roman  emperor,  70-79  a.d.)  is  reported  by  Philostratus  in  his 
life  of  Apollonius,  v,  28. 

5.  saith  Tacitus,  etc.  :  "  The  desires  of  kings  are  mostly  vehement, 
and  inconsistent  with  one  another."  The  author  of  the  "  sentence  "  was 
not  Tacitus  but  Sallust  i^BcIlitin  Jui:,iii-tliiiiuin.  '13). 

6.  solecism  of  power :  "  solecism "  here  signifies  inconsistency  or 
incongruity. 

7.  Memento  quod  es  homo,  etc. :  "  Remember  that  you  are  man  ;  remem- 
ber that  you  are  God,  or  the  lieutenant  of  God." 

Page  26. 

8.  Nero  .  .  .  Domitian  .  .  .  Commodus  .  .  .  Caracalla  :  all  Roman  em- 
perors. Nero  reigned  from  54  to  68  a.d.;  Domitian,  from  81  to  96; 
Commodus,  from   180  to   192;  and  Caracalla,  from   211    to   217. 

9.  Diocletian  :  Roman  emperor  from  284  to  305  a.d.  He  spent  the  later 
part  of  his  life,  after  his  abdication  in  305,  on  his  estates  in  Dalmatia. 

Page  ^27. 

ID.  that  triumvirate  of  kings:  the  first  reigned  from  1509  to  1547; 
the  second,  from  151 5  to  1547;  and  the  third,  from  1519  to  1556. 

1 1.  Guicciardine  :  Francesco  Guicciardini  (1483- 1540),  a  Florentine  his- 
torian, whose  Storia  d' Italia  ("  History  of  Italy  ")  was  one  of  the  most 
important  and  widely  read  works  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 

T  2.  Ferdinando  King  of  Naples  :    Ferdinand  II  (1469-1496). 

13.  Lorenzius  Medices  :  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  (cir.  1449-1492),  surnamed 
"  The  Magnificent,"  a  Florentine  statesman  and  patron  of  letters,  the  virtual 
ruler  of  his  city  from  1478  to  his  death. 

14.  Ludovicus  Sforza  :   Lodovico  Sforza  (d.  cir.  1510),  Duke  of  Milan. 


NOTES  399 

Page  28. 

15.  Livia:  see  Tacitus,  Annals,  iv,  3. 

1 6.  infamed  :  defamed. 

17.  Roxalana ;  the  murder  of  Prince  Mustapha  through  the  instigation 
of  Roxalana,  one  of  his  father's  wives,  took  place  in  1553.  It  was  a  favor- 
ite incident  with  Elizabethan  dramatists,  entering  into  no  less  than  five 
plays  between  1581  and  1638.  See  Wann,  "The  Oriental  in  Elizabethan 
Drama,"  in  Modem  Philology,  xii  (191  5),  434-435. 

I  8.  Edward  the  Second  of  England  his  queen  :  Edward  II  (reigned  1 307- 
1327)  was  deposed  as  a  result  of  an  uprising  led  by  his  queen,  Isabella  of 
France,  and  was  murdered  in  prison.  —  The  form  of  the  possessive  used  in 
this  phrase  was  the  common  form  with  proper  names  until  well  into  the 
seventeenth  century. 

19.  advoutresses  :   adulteresses. 

20.  Solyman :  Solyman  I,  who  ruled  over  the  Ottoman  Turks  from 
I  520  to  I  566. 

21.  Selymus  the  Second:   Solyman's  son.  Sultan  from  1566  to  1574. 

22.  The  destruction  of  Crispus :  a.d.  326.  Constantine  was  Roman 
emperor  from  306  to  337  ;  his  sons  died  respectively  in  340,  350,  and  361. 

23.  Philip  the  Second:  King  of  Macedon  from  359  to  336  B.C.,  the 
father  of  Alexander  the  Great. 

24.  Selymus  the  First:  Sultan  of  the  Ottoman  Turks  from  1512,  when 
he  dethroned  his  father,  Bajazet  II  (i  447-1  51  2),  to  his  death  in  1520. 

25.  the  three  sons  of  Henry  the  Second  :  the  three  sons  were  Henry 
and  Geoffrey,  both  of  whom  died  before  their  father  in  1 1 83  and  i  1 86 
respectively,  and  Richard,  who  succeeded  his  father  in  11 89  as  Richard  I. 

26.  Anselmus  and  Thomas  Becket :  the  former  was  Archbi.shop  of  Can- 
terbury from  1093  to  1 109,  during  the  reigns  of  William  II  (1087-1100) 
and  of  Henry  I -(i  loo-i  135);  the  latter,  from  1162  to  1170,  during  the 
reign  of  Henry  II  (1  154-1 189).  Both  Anselm  and  Becket  were  defenders 
of  Church  privilege  against  the  claims  of  royal  power.  Bacon's  attitude 
toward  them  is  typical  of  the  Protestant  and  monarchical  views  dominant 
in  England  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 

Page  29. 

27.  collation :  gift,  applied  to  the  bestowal  of  a  benefice  upon  a  clergyman. 

28.  I  have  noted  it  in  my  history  of  King  Henry  the  Seventh  :  see  Tlie 
Works  of  Francis  Bacon,  ed.  Spedding,  Ellis,  and  Heath,  vi  (1890),  242. 
Bacon's  History  was  finished  in  1621  and  published  the  following  year. 


400  'J'lIE   ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

29.  vena  porta:  literally  "gate  veins."  The  meaning  is  perhaps  ex- 
plained by  the  following  sentence  from  The  History  of  Henry  the  Sevetith 
(quoted  by  M.  A.  Scott,  The  Essays  0/ Fra/nis  Bacon,  p.  89):  "he  could 
not  endure  to  have  trade  sick,  nor  any  obstruction  to  continue  in  the 
gate-vein  which  disperseth  the  blood."  The  term  belongs  to  the  medical 
vocabulary  of  Bacon's  time. 

30.  leeseth :  a  regular  form,  much  in  use  in  the  sixteenth  century,  later 
entirely  superseded  by  "  lose,"  which  is  in  part  derived  from  the  same  root. 

3 1 .  donatives  :  gifts. 

32.  janizaries  :   Turkish  troops  forming  the  life-guard  of  the  Sultan. 

33.  pretorian  bands  :  the  body-guard  of  the  Roman  emperors. 

Of  Truth 
First  printed  (as  No.  i)  in  the  edition  of  1625. 

Page  30. 

1.  What  is  truth?  John  xviii,  38. 

2.  sects  of  philosophers  :  the  Sceptics,  a  group  of  ancient  philosophers 
who  denied  the  possibility  of  human  knowledge.  One  of  the  most  cele- 
brated representatives  of  the  school  was  Pyrrho  (36o?-27o.?  B.C.),  from 
whose  name  the  sceptical  attitude  was  often  known  as  Pyrrhonism. 

3.  discoursing  :  the  word  may  mean  here  either  argumentative  or  discur- 
sive, that  is,  unsettled,  roving.  The  sentence  in  which  it  stands  has  been 
interpreted,  probably  without  any  justification,  as  an  allusion  to  Montaigne. 

4.  One  of  the  later  school  of  the  Grecians  :  Lucian  of  Samosata  (second 
century  A.D;),  who  discusses  the  question  in  his  dialogue  Philopseudes. 

Page  31. 

5.  vinum  d£emonum  :   devils'  wine. 

6.  The  poet  .  .  .  saith  yet  excellently  well:  Lucretius  (cir.  96-55  B.C.), 
whose  great  poem,  Dc  Reniin  A'atitra,  was  written  to  expound  the  philos- 
ophy of  Epicurus.  The  passage  quoted  by  Bacon  is  a  paraphase  of  the 
beginning  of  Book  II. 

7.  round  dealing  :   direct,  plain,  straightforward  treatment. 

8.  allay :  an  old  form  of  "  alloy." 

9.  embaseth  :   destroys  the  purity  oi  the  metal  by  introducing  alloy. 

Page  32. 

10.  And  therefore  Montaigne  saith  prettily:  Essais,  ii,  18.  Montaigne 
is  here  quoting  and  commenting  upon  a  passage  from  Plutarch's  Life  of 
Lysander. 

1 1 .  lie  shall  not  find  faith  upon  the  earth  :  see  Luke  xviii,  8. 


NOTES  401 

Of  Death 

Written  by  1 607-161  2;  printed  as  No.  2  in  both  161  2  and  1625.  The 
1625  text,  which  is  reproduced  here,  differs  in  a  few  unimportant  details 
from  that  of  1612. 

1 .  the  friars'  books  of  mortification :  books  of  devotion  intended  to 
facilitate  the  subduing  of  the  bodily  appetites. 

2.  Pompa  mortis,  etc. :  "  The  shows  of  death  are  more  fearful  than  death 
itself.''    Quoted  freely  from  Seneca,  Epistolce  iii,  3,  14. 

3.  Groans  and  convulsions,  etc. :  this  sentence  may  have  been  suggested 
to  Bacon  by  the  following  passage  from  Montaigne's  essay  "  Que  philosopher 
c'est  apprendre  a  mourir  "  (i,  20),  as  translated  by  Florio  :  "  I  verily  believe 
these  fearful  looks  and  astonishing  countenances  wherewith  we  encompass 
it  are  those  that  more  amaze  and  terrify  us  than  death  :  a  new  form  of  life ; 
the  outcries  of  mothers  ;  the  wailing  of  women  and  children  ;  the  visitation 
of  dismayed  and  swooning  friends ;  the  assistance  of  a  number  of  pale- 
looking,  distracted,  and  whining  servants  ;  a  dark  chamber  ;  tapers  burning 
round  about ;  our  couch  beset  round  with  physicians  and  preachers :  and 
to  conclude,  nothing  but  horror  and  astonishment  on  every  side  of  us :  are 
we  not  already  dead  and  buried .''  " 

4.  mates  :  weakens,  overpowers. 

Page  33. 

5.  pre-occupateth  :  anticipates. 

6.  Otho  the  Emperor :  Roman  emperor,  Januarj'-April,  69  a.d. 

7.  niceness  :   the  w^ord  may  mean  either  luxury  or  fastidiousness. 

8.  Cogita  quamdiu,  etc. :  Seneca,  Epistolce  iii,  i  :  "  Think  how  fre- 
quently you  do  the  same  things ;  one  may  wish  to  die,  not  so  much  because 
he  is  brave  or  miserable  as  because  he  is  weary  of  living." 

9.  Livia,  conjugii,  etc.:  Suetonius,  Augustus^  99:  "  Livia,  in  remem- 
brance of  our  married  life,  live  on;  farewell."  This  and  the  quotadons 
that  follow  reflect  a  very  characteristic  element  in  Bacon's  culture  —  his 
fondness  for  the  Roman  historians. 

10.  lam  Tiberium.  etc.:  Tacitus,  Annals,  vi,  50:  "  Tiberius's  strength 
and  manhood  were  now  leaving  him,  but  not  his  love  of  dissimulation." 

1 1 .  Ut  puto  Deus  fio  :  Suetonius,  Vespasian,  23  :  "I  suppose  that  I  am 
becoming  a  god." 

12.  Feri,  si  ex  re,  etc.:  Tacitus,  Historia  i,  41  :  "Strike,  if  it  be  for 
the  good  of  the  Roman  people." 

13.  Adeste  si  quid,  etc.  :  Dion  Cassius,  Ixxvi,  17  :  "  Make  haste,  if  any- 
thing remains  for  me  to  do." 


402  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

14.  qui  finem  vit£e,  etc.:  "Who  counts  the  end  of  life  as  one  of 
Nature's  gifts."    An  inaccurate  quotation  from  Juvenal,  Satires,  x,  358. 

15.  the  sweetest  canticle  is  Nunc  dimittis :  the  song  of  Simeon  :  "Lord, 
now  lettest  thy  servant  depart  in  peace."    See  Luke  ii,  29-32. 

16.  Extinctus  amabitur  idem:  Horace,  Epistolcc  II,  i,  14:  "The  same 
one,  dead,  will  be  loved." 

Of  Adversity 

First  printed  (as  No.  5)  in  the  edition  of  1625.  If,  as  appears  likely, 
Bacon  in  writing  this  essay  was  thinking  of  his  own  period  of  adversity 
following  his  conviction  and  disgrace  on  the  charge  of  corruption,  its  date 
of  composition  must  have  been  after  1621. 

Page  34. 

1.  Seneca:  the  two  quotations  are  from  Epistolce  VII,  iv,  29  and  VI, 
i,  1 2  respectively. 

2.  transcendences  :  elevated  sentiments  and  expressions. 

3.  Prometheus  :  according  to  the  Greek  myth,  Prometheus,  for  the  crime 
of  giving  mankind  fire,  was  bound  by  Zeus  to  a  rock  on  Mt.  Caucasus, 
where  he  was  the  prey  of  a  huge  vulture.    He  was  released  by  Hercules. 

Of  Envy 

First  printed  (as  No.  9)  in  the  edition  of  1625. 

Page  35. 

1 .  an  ejaculation  or  irradiation  of  the  eye  :  "  ejaculation  "  here  means 
the  emission  of  rays  having  a  magic  influence. 

2.  curiosities  :   niceties. 

3.  to  come  at  even  hand  :  to  make  himself  even. 

Page  36. 

4.  play-pleasure  :  the  pleasure  one  takes  in  looking  at  a  play. 

5.  Non  est  curiosus,  etc. :  "  No  one  is  curious  without  being  also 
malevolent." 

6.  Narses  :  a  Byzantine  general  (cir.  47S-cir.  573  a.d.). 

7.  Agesilaus  :  see  note  8  to  page  10. 

8.  Tamberlanes  :  sec  note  1 1  to  page  i  2. 

9.  Adrian  the  Emperor :  Publius  /Elius  Hadrianus,  Roman  emperor 
from   117  to   1 38  A.n. 

10.  incurreth  :  here  used  in  the  etymological  .sense  of  running  into 
or  toward. 


NOTES  403 

Page  37. 

I  1 .  per  saltum  :  at  a  bound. 

I  2.  quanta  patimur  :  how  much  we  suffer. 

Page  38. 

13.  derive  :  to  turn  the  course  of,  divert. 

Page  39. 

14.  plausible:  worthy  of  applause. 
I  5.  estates  :  states,  bodies  politic. 

16.  Invidia  festos  dies  non  agit :   "  Envy  takes  no  holidays." 
I  7.   The  envious  man,  that  soweth  tares,  etc. :  probably  a  reminiscence  of 
Matthew  xiii,  25. 

Of  Travel 
First  printed  (as  No.  18)  in  the  edition  of  1625. 

Page  40. 

1 .  allow  :  approve. 

2.  bourses  :  stock  exchanges.  The  word  is  derived  from  (Fr.)  bourse^ 
a  purse. 

3.  triumphs,  masques  :  see  Bacon's  essay  on  this  subject. 
Page  41. 

4.  a  great  adamant  of  acquaintance  :  adamant  here  means  loadstone 
or  magnet. 

Of  Friendship 
An  essay  "Of  Friendship"  appeared  in  the   1612  edition  of  Bacon's 
Essays.    It  was  entirely  rewritten,  however,  for  the  collection  of  1625,  in 
which  it  appeared  as  No.  27.    The  latter  text  is  printed  here. 

Page  42. 

1.  Whosoever  is  delighted  in  solitude,  etc.  :   Aristotle,  Politics  i,  2,  14. 

2.  aversation  :   aversion. 

3.  Epimenides,  etc.  :  Epimenides  (seventh  century  B.C.),  a  Cretan  poet 
and  prophet.  Numa,  the  legendary  second  king  of  Rome.  Empedocles 
(cir.  490-430  i;.c.),  a  Sicilian  philosopher  and  poet.  On  Apollonius  see 
note  4  to  page  25. 

4.  Magna  civitas,  magna  solitudo  :  "  A  great  city  is  a  great  solitude." 
Bacon  probably  quoted  the  phrase  from  Erasmus's  Adagia.  See  Introduc- 
tion, p.  xii,  and  note  12  to  page  12. 

5.  sarza,  etc.  :  names  of  medicines  in  familiar  use  in  Bacon's  time. 
Sarza  is  modern  sarsaparilla  :  castorcum,  a  secretion  of  the  beaver. 


404  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  43. 

6.  privadoes  :  private  friends  (Spanish). 

7.  participes  curarum  :  sharers  of  sorrows  or  cares. 

8.  L.  Sylla,  etc.  :  of  the  "  examples  "  cited  in  this  paragraph,  the  anec- 
dote of  Sylla  and  Pompey  came  from  Plutarch's  Life  of  Fo/Jipey;  that  of 
Ca?sar  and  Brutus,  from  the  same  writer's  Life  cf  Ccpsar;  the  characteriza- 
tion of  Brutus  from  Cicero's  Philippics  (xiii,  1 1 );  the  remark  of  Maecenas, 
from  Dion  Cassius'  Roviaii  History  (Ivi,  6);  the  account  of  Tiberius's  friend- 
ship with  Sejanus,  from  Tacitus's  ^liuuils  (Iv,  40) ;  and  the  story  of  Severus 
and  Plautianus,  from  Dion  Cassius  (Ixxv,  15).  Sylla  or  Sulla  (138-78  u.c.) 
and  Pompey  (106-48  n.c.)  were  Roman  generals  of  the  later  days  of  the 
Republic,  at  first  friends,  but  later  rivals.  By  "against  the  pursuit  of  Sylla" 
Bacon  means  that  Sylla  was  supporting  another  candidate.  Augustus 
(63  B.C.-14  A.I).),  Tiberius  Caesar  (42  B.C.-37  A.D.),  and  Septimius  Severus 
(146-21 1  A.D.)  were  Roman  emperors.  Maecenas  (d.  8  li.c.)  was  a  states- 
man of  the  reign  of  Augustus ;  he  is  perhaps  best  known  as  the  patron 
of  Virgil  and  Horace.  Agrippa  (63-12  B.C.)  was  the  leading  statesman  of 
the  same  reign  ;  he  married  Augustus's  daughter  Julia  as  his  third  wife. 
Sejanus  (d.  31  a.d.)  was  the  chief  minister  of  Tiberius.  His  career  was 
made  familiar  to  Bacon's  contemporaries  by  a  tragedy  of  Ben  Jonson. 
Plautianus  was  praetorian  prefect  during  the  reign  of  Septimius  Severus. 

Page  44. 

9.  Hsec  pro  amicitia  nostra  non  occultavi :  "  I  have  told  you  this  in 
consideration  of  our  friendship." 

10.  mought :  an  old  form  of  "might." 
Page  45. 

I T .  Comineus  :  Philip  de  Commines,  a  French  historian  of  the  fifteenth 
century '(cir.  1447-1511).  His  Afeinoircs  narrated  the  more  important 
events  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XI,  especially  his  wars  with  Charles  the  Bold 
of  Burgundy. 

12.  Pythagoras:  Creek  philosopher  (cir.  582-cir.  500  B.C.).  The  saying 
attributed  to  him  here  is  cjuoted  in  Plutarch's  essay  Of  the  Education 
of  Chi  id  re /I. 

1 3.  It  was  well  said  by  Themistocles :  see  Plutarch's  LJfe  ofTlieinistocles. 
Pagic  46. 

14.  Heraclitus  :   Greek  philosopher  (cir.  53S-cir.  475  i!.c.). 

15.  St.  James  saith  :  James  i,  23,  24. 
Pa(;e  47. 

16.  the  four  and  twenty  letters:  in  Bacon's  day  /  and  /,  and  u  and  v 
were  not  differentiated,  except  to  a  certain  extent  typographically. 


NOTES  405 

Of  Plantations 
First  published  (as  No.  33)  in  the  edition  of  1625.  The  subject  of 
"  plantations,"  or  colonies,  was  provoking  much  discussion  in  England  at 
the  time  ;  and  Bacon's  own  interest  in  it  had  more  than  a  speculative  basis. 
He  was  an  "  adventurer,"  or  stockholder,  in  the  London  or  South  Virginia 
Company,  chartered  in  1 609,  and  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  projects 
for  planting  English  colonies  in  the  north  of  Ireland.  Many  of  the 
practical  directions  for  the  conduct  of  plantations  which  he  gives  in  the 
essay  may  well  have  been  suggested  to  him  by  his  observation  of  these 
contemporary  enterprises. 
Page  48. 

1.  leese :  lose. 
Page  49. 

2.  It  is  a  shameful  and  unblessed  thing  to  take  the  scum  of  people :  as 
was  done,  for  example,  in  the  early  attempts  to  colonize  Mrginia,  of  which 
perhaps  Bacon  was  thinking. 

3.  artichokes  of  Hierusalem  :  a  plant  with  an  edible  root  introduced 
from  South  America  by  the  Italians,  who  called  it  girasole  articiocco,  or 
"sunflower  artichoke."  The  connection  with  Jerusalem  was  evidently  due 
to  English  misunderstanding  of  the  Italian  name. 

4.  his  own  private  :  his  own  private  use  or  business. 
Page  50. 

5.  as  it  hath  fared  with  tobacco  in  Virginia :  as  the  English  text  of  this 
passage  stands,  it  seems  natural  to  make  the  phrase  "  as  it  hath  fared  with 
tobacco  in  \'irginia  "  modify  "  to  the  untimely  prejudice  of  the  main  busi- 
ness." This  interpretation,  moreover,  has  the  support  of  the  known  facts 
concerning  the  early  cultivation  of  tobacco  in  \'irginia.  Gardiner  (History 
of  England  .  .  .  160J-1642  (ed.  1901),  III,  158-159)  thus  describes  the 
situation  which  resulted  from  its  introduction  in  161 6:  "  Everyone  was  in 
haste  to  grow  rich,  and  everyone  forgot  that  tobacco  would  not  prove  a  sub- 
stitute for  bread.  Every  inch  of  ground  which  had  been  cleared  was  devoted 
to  tobacco.  The  very  streets  of  Jamestown  were  dug  up  to  make  room 
for  the  precious  leaf.  Men  had  no  time  to  speak  of  anything  but  tobacco. 
The  church,  the  bridge,  the  palisades,  were  allowed  to  fall  into  decay,  whilst 
every  available  hand  was  engaged  upon  the  crop  which  was  preparing  for 
exportation.  The  natural  result  followed.  Starvation  once  more  stared  the 
settlers  in  the  face."  The  Latin  translation  of  the  Essays,  however,  part 
of  which  at  least  was  done  under  Bacon's  supervision,  places  the  phrase  in 
question  after  "  charge  of  plantation  "  and  before  "  so  it  be  not,  as  was  said, 
etc."  — an  arrangement  which  completely  alters  the  sense. 


4o6  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

C.  put  in  experience  :  proved  by  actual  test. 

7.  moil :  labor,  drudge. 

8.  undertakers  :  projectors. 

9.  marish :  marshy. 

Page  51. 

10.  gingles  :  an  old  spelling  of  "  jingles." 

Of  Gardens 

First  printed  (as  No.  46)  in  the  edition  of  1625. 

1 .  lavender  :  the  reader  who  is  curious  to  know  the  modern  botanical 
names  of  the  plants  and  flowers  mentioned  by  Bacon  will  find  them  care- 
fully distinguished  in  the  edition  of  the  Essays  by  Mary  Augusta  Scott 
(Scribner's,  1908). 

2.  stoved :  kept  warm  in  a  house  by  artificial  heat. 

Page  52. 

3.  ver  perpetuum  :  perpetual  spring. 

4.  fast  flowers  of  their  smells  :  flowers  tenacious  of  their  smells. 

Page  53. 

5.  Bartholomew-tide  :  St.  Bartholomew's  Day,  August  24. 

6.  which  [yield] :  the  original  has  here  "  which  a  most  excellent  cordial 
smell."  The  emendation  given  in  the  text  is  supported  by  the  Latin  trans- 
lation of  the  essay,  which  reads  "  quae  habitum  cmittunt  plane  cardiacum." 
Spedding  in  his  standard  edition  of  the  Essays  follows  the  edition  of  1639 
and  prints  "  with  a  most  excellent  cordial  smell." 

7.  the  dust  of  a  bent:  "dust"  here  means  pollen;  a  ''bent"  is  a  kind 
of  grass. 

8.  heath  or  desert :  a  part  of  the  garden  left  more  or  less  uncultivated. 

Page  54. 

9.  letting  your  prospect :  shutting  off  your  view  — "  let "  in  the  old 
sense  of  hinder. 

10.  welts:  borders,  fringes. 

Page  55. 

11.  statuas  :  statues  (Lat.). 

Page  56. 

12.  and  no  grass,  because  of  going  wet :  because  it  conduces  to  wetness. 

13.  some  fair  alleys,  ranged  on  both  sides  with  fruit-trees  :  the  original 
edition  sets  off  the  phrase  "  ranged  on  both  sides  "  with  commas,  thereby 


NOTES  407 

confusing  the  interpretation  of  the  sentence.  Spedding  reads  "  some  fair 
alleys  ranged  on  both  sides,  with  fruit-trees  "  ;  but  the  punctuation  given 
in  the  text  would  seem  more  reasonable. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

The  Dangers  of  an  Honest  Man  in  Much  Company 

This  essay  was  No.  S  in  Several  Discourses  by  Way  of  Essays,  in  Verse 
and  Prose,  first  printed  in  the  folio  edition  of  Cowley's  works  issued  in 
1668.  Like  all  the  other  essays  it  concluded  with  a  bit  of  verse,  which 
is  here  omitted. 

Page  58. 

1.  twenty  thousand  naked  Americans:  perhaps  an  allusion  to  the  mas- 
sacre of  Cholula  in  Mexico  during  the  expedition  of  Cortes  (15 19).  See 
Prescott,  Histoiy  of  the  Conqjiest  of  Mexico,  Lk.  Ill,  chap.  vii. 

2.  cap-a-pie  :  from  head  to  foot,  completely. 

Page  59. 

3.  the  Toupinambaltians  :  a  savage  tribe  of  Brazil,  celebrated  for  its 
"  natural  virtues  "  by  seventeenth-century  writers  of  voyages.  See  Chinard, 
n Ameriqrie  et  le  rcve  exotique  dans  la  liitei-ature  fratiqaise  au  XVI P 
ef  au  XJ'IIP  siecle  (Paris,  1913),  chap.  i. 

4.  cozen :  cheat. 

5.  Go  to,  let  us  build  us  a  city  :  see  Genesis  xi,  4. 

6.  the  beginning  of  Rome  :  Cowley  in  this  sentence  alludes  to  two  inci- 
dents in  the  founding  of  Rome  as  related  in  Livy  (I,  vii,  viii).  Before  the 
construction  of  the  new  city  was  very  far  advanced,  the  question  of  its 
name  occasioned  a  quarrel  between  Romulus  and  his  brother  Remus. 
They  decided  to  leave  it  to  an  augur}'  of  vultures.  When  Romulus  won, 
Remus  in  derision  leaped  over  the  newly  erected  wall ;  whereupon  Romulus 
slew  him.  Later  Romulus,  in  order  to  people  his  city,  made  it  a  place  of 
refuge  for  the  criminals  and  outlaws  of  the  surrounding  country. 

Page  60. 

7.  the  first  town  ...  in  the  world  :  the  city  of  Enoch  built  by  Cain 
after  his  murder  of  Abel.    See  Genesis  iv,  1 7. 

8.  Quid  Romae  faciam?  Mentiri  nescio :  Juvenal,  6'iZ//;v.f  iii,  41  :  "What 
should  1  do  at  Rome?    1  know  not  how  to  lie." 

9.  advice  which  Martial  gave  to  Fabian :  Epigrams,  iv,  5. 


408  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Pack  6i. 

lo.  Lucretius:  De  Rcriim  JVatiira  i\,  i. 

1  I .  Democritus :  Greek  philosopher  (born  cir.  460  B.C.),  traditionally 
known  as  the  "  laughing  philosopher." 

12.  Bedlam:  this  form  represents  the  popular  English  pronunciation  of 
Bethlehem.  From  the  fourteenth  century  the  Hospital  of  St.  Mary  of 
Bethlehem  in  London  (incorporated  in  1547)  was  the  principal  lunatic 
asylum  in  England.  The  word  "  bedlam,"  originally  applied  to  this  hospi- 
tal, came  in  time  to  signify  a  lunatic  asylum  in  general,  and  later  still  any 
scene  of  madness.    Cowley  is  using  it  probably  in  the  first  sense. 

13.  ut  nee  facta  audiat  Pelopidarum  :  quoted  by  Cicero,  Ad  Fami Hares 
vii,  30.  With  the  substitution  of  "sons  of  Adam"  for  "sons  of  Pelops  " 
the  phrase  is  translated  in  the  next  clause. 

Page  62. 

14.  Quia  terra  patet,  etc.:  Ovid,  AFctaDwrphoscs  i,  i\\-i\z:  "Wher- 
ever earth  extends,  a  wild  fury  reigns ;  you  would  think  that  men  had 
sworn  allegiance  to  crime." 

1 5.  the  shepherds  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney :  an  allusion  to  Sidney's  pas- 
toral romance  A/rad/a  (printed  in  1590,  but  written  before  1586),  a  work 
still  in  general  circulation  in  Cowley's  day. 

16.  Monsieur  d'Urf^ :  Honore  d'Urfe  (i  567-1 625),  a  French  writer, 
author  of  the  pastoral  romance  FAstrce  (1610),  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
works  of  fiction  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Lignon  and  La  Forrest  are 
names  of  places  in  the  story. 

1 7.  Chertsey :  a  small  town  on  the  Thames  west  of  London,  where 
Cowley  was  living  when  he  wrote  this  essay. 

18.  St.  Paul's  advice:    i  Corinthians  vii,  29. 

1 9.  mundum  ducere  and  not  mundo  nubere :  marry  the  world  as  a 
husband,  and  not  be  wedded  to  the  world  as  a  wife. 

Of  Myself 
The  last,  or  No.  1 1,  of  Cowley's  Several  Discojiises. 

Page  64. 

1.  Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field:  Horace's  country  place 
referred  to  in   many  of   his   Odes. 

2.  the  conclusion  is  taken  out  of  Horace  :   Odes  IH,  xxix,  41  ff. 

Page  65. 

3.  I  went  to  the  university  :  Cowley  became  a  scholar  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1 637.    He  received  his  B.A.  in  1639,  was  elected  minor  fellow 


NOTES  409 

in  1640,  and  took  his  M.A.  degree  in  1642.    In  the  winter  of  1643-1644 
he  was  ejected  from  his  college  by  the  Puritans. 

4.  I  was  cast  .  .  .  into  the  family  of  one  of  the  best  persons  :  after  leav- 
ing college  Cowley  became  a  member  of  the  household  of  Jermyn,  afterwards 
Earl  of  St.  Albans.  In  1646  he  accompanied  the  queen,  Henrietta  Maria, 
to  France,  where  he  was  employed  on  various  diplomatic  missions  by  the 
exiled  English  court. 

Page  66. 

5.  the  failing  of  the  forces  which  I  had  expected  :  for  several  years 
after  the  Restoration  Cowley  was  unable  to  secure  any  aid  from  the  gov- 
ernment of  Charles  II  in  recognition  of  his  services.  Finally,  however, 
through  the  influence  of  the  Earl  of  St.  Albans  and  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, he  was  given  a  lease  of  land  in  Surrey. 

6.  a  corps  perdu :  without  reflection  or  hope  of  return. 

7.  Non  ego  perfidum  dixi  sacramentum  :  Horace,  Odes  II,  xvii,  9-10: 
"  I  have  not  sworn  a  perjured  oath." 

Page  67. 

8.  Nee  vos,  dulcissima  mundi :  the  editors  have  been  unable  to  discover 
the  source  of  this  quotation. 

9.  quantum  sufficit :  a  sufficient  quantity. 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  CHARACTERS 

JOHN  EARLE 

Earle's  "characters"  were  first  printed  in  162S  under  the  title  of 
iMurocosfHograp/iie,  or  a  Piece  0/  the  World  Discovered  in  Essays  and 
CJiaraciers.  There  were  many  later  editions.  The  present  text  is  taken 
from  Arber's  reprint  of  the  editio  princeps  in  English  Reprints  (1869). 

A  Mere  Young  Gentleman  of  the  University 
No.  23  in  the  edition  of  1628. 

Page  69. 

1.  neat  silk  strings:  strings  were  used  in  the  seventeenth  century,  as 
earlier,  to  hold  the  covers  of  books  shut. 

2.  a  piece  of  Euphormio  :  Euphonnionis  Satyricon^  a  satirical  novel 
written  in  Latin  prose  by  John  Barclay  (i  582-1621),  a  Scotchman  who 
lived  and  wrote  for  the  most  part  on  the  Continent. 

3.  he  studies  arms  and  books  of  honour  :  books  of  heraldry  and  etiquette. 

4.  an  ingle  to  gold  hatbands  :  a  flatterer  of  the  rich. 


41 0  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  70. 

5.   Inns-of-court :   sec  note  4  to  page  S3. 

A  Contemplative  Man 
No.  44  in  the  edition  of  1628. 

JEAN  LA  BRUYtRE 

The  Character  of  Arrias 

A  part  of  the  chapter  "  De  la  Societe  et  de  la  Conversation  "  in  La 
Bruyere's  Lcs  Caractcrcs  ou  les  via'iif's  de  ce  siccle.  The  reflections  form- 
ing the  first  paragraph  appeared  originally  in  the  fourth  edition  of  Les 
Caracteres  (1689);  the  portrait  of  Arrias  was  added  in  the  eighth  edition 
(1694).  The  translation  reproduced  here  is  that  of  Henri  Van  Laun  {The 
"  Characters  "  of  Jeaji  La  Bntycre  newly  rendered  into  English.  London, 
John  C.  Nimmo  (1885),  pp.  103-105). 

Page  71. 

1.  Zamet  .  .  .  Ruccellai  .  .  .  Concini :  three  Italians,  favorites  of  Marie 
de  Medicis  (La  Bruyere's  note). 

2.  than  .  .  .  appear  to  ignore  anything :  a  careless  translation ;  the 
original  has  "  que  de  .   .   .   paraitre  ignorer  quelque  chose." 

THE  TATLER 

The  text  of  the  777//6V' presented  in  this  collection  is  based  on  the  edition 
of  G.  A.  Aitken  (4  vols.,  London,  1S98-1899),  corrected  where  necessary 
by  reference  to  the  original  sheets  and  the  early  octavo  reprints.  A  critical 
edition  of  the  Tatler  is  still  a  desideratum. 

Prospectus 
This  announcement  was  printed  in  italic  type  before  Nos.  i,  2,  and  3  of 
the  original  issue  of  the  Tatler — the  ^^ gratis  stock  "  referred  to  in  the  text. 

Page  73. 

I.  Motto:  Juvenal,  Sat.  i,  85,  86:  "What  mankind  does  shall  my 
collections  fill." 

In  the  original  sheets  Nos.  2-40  of  the  Tatler  had  the  same  motto 
as  No.  I  ;  in  the  early  collected  editions  these  numbers  appeared  without 
mottoes.  From  No.  41  on,  various  mottoes  were  used,  with  frequent  recur- 
rence of  (2tiic(]uid  agiint  homines  and  frequent  omission  of  a  motto  alto- 
gether. In  neither  the  Tatler  nox  the  Spectator  viqvq  the  mottoes  translated 
—  a  fact  which  Thackeray  overlooked  in  writing  the  imaginary  Spectator 


NOTES  411 

paper  in  llcniy  Esiiioiul  (IWl.  Ill,  chap.  iii;.  Most  of  the  translations  of 
mottoes  given  in  these  notes  are  taken  from  The  Mottoes  of  t lie  Spectators, 
Tatters,  and  Guardians,  translated  into  Eni^^lish.  Second  edition,  1737. 
While  the  versions  in  this  book  are  not  as  a  rule  literal,  nor  always  even 
accurate,  they  have  perhaps  the  merit  of  being  contemporary,  or  nearly 
contemporary,  renderings. 

2.  the  convenience  of  the  post :  the  mail  for  the  country  left  London 
on  these  days. 

Page  74. 

3.  White's  Chocolate-house,  etc.  :  the  names  of  celebrated  taverns  in 
early  eighteenth-century  London.  White's  was  situated  in  St.  James  Street, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Court,  and  therefore  in  the  center  of  fashion- 
able life ;  Will's  (so  called  from  the  original  proprietor,  William  LTrwin),  in 
Russell  Street  near  the  Drury  Lane  and  Covent  Garden  theaters ;  the 
Grecian  (a  resort  of  lawyers  and  scholars),  in  Devereux  Court,  off  the 
Strand;  and  the  St.  James  (a  favorite  meeting  place  of  Whig  politicians), 
in  St.  James  Street. 

4.  some  plain  Spanish  :  wine. 

5.  Kidney:  the  head  waiter  at  the  St.  James  Coffee-house,  the  object 
of  many  bantering  allusions  in  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator.  See,  in  the 
former,   Nos.    10,   26,   69,  and,'  in  the  latter,   No.   24. 

On  Duelling 

Only  the  first  part  of  this  number  of  the  Tatler — the  "news"  from 
White's  —  is  given  in  the  text.  In  the  original  the  sadre  on  duelling  is 
followed  by  an  essay,  dated  "From  my  own  Apartment,  June  14,"  on 
critics,  and  by  a  budget  of  foreign  news,  dated  "  St.  James's  Coffee-house, 

June  15." 

Page  75. 

1 .  that  ridiculous  custom  of  duelling  :  this  paper  belongs  to  a  series  of 
essays,  begun  early  in  the  Tatler,  in  which  Steele  attempted  to  picture  the 
absurdities  of  the  duel.    The  others  are  Nos.  25,  26,  28,  31,  38,  and  39. 

2.  huge  falbala  periwigs  :  the  periwig,  also  called  the  furbelow,  was 
the  dress  wig  of  the  period.  It  was  made  with  plaits,  and  its  length  pro- 
voked not  a  little  satire.  Thus  in  Tatler  180  was  printed  a  mock  adver- 
tisement of  "  a  stage  coach  to  set  out  every  evening  for  Mr.  Tiptoe's 
dancing-school,"  to  which  was  appended  the  note  that  "  dancing  shoes, 
not  exceeding  four  inches  height  in  the  heel,  and  periwigs  not  exceeding 
three  foot  in  length,  are  carried  in  the  coach  box  gratis^ 


412  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

.  3.  beauetry :  so  in  the  original.  Chalmers  in  the  British  Essayists 
reprint,  followed  by  Aitkcn,  emends  to  "beauty,"  which  is  clearly  wrong. 
The  word  is  a  simple  formation  from  "  beau  "  on  the  model  of  "  coquetry" 
from  "  coquette  "  ;  its  use  in  the  early  eighteenth  century  is  attested  by 
other  passages. 

4.  a  long  Duvillier :  a  furbelow ;  named  from  a  famous  French 
wigmaker. 

Page  76. 

5.  Don  Quixote:  Cervantes'  (i  547-1616)  novel  satirizing  the  extrava- 
gances of  the  Spanish  romances  of  chivalry.  The,  first  part  was  published 
in  1605,  the  second  in  161  5.  It  was  well  known  in  England  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century,  at  least  three  translations  having  appeared  since  161 2. 

6.  Wantley :  the  Dragon  of  Wantley  is  the  subject  of  a  ballad  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  which  celebrates  his  overthrow  at  the  hands  of  Moor 
of  Moor  Hall,  Yorkshire.  Cf.  Percy's  Reiiqncs,  Sen  III,  Bk.  Ill,  No.  13. 
The  reference  to  Suetonius  is  manifesdy  jocose. 

7.  except  France  :  where  duelling  was  forbidden. 

Happy  Marriage 

Page  77. 

1.  Mfttto:  Yirgil,  Geor<^ucs  u,  523-524: 

Meantime,  his  children  hang  upon  his  lips, 

His  faithful  bed  is  crowned  with  chaste  delights. 

Page  78. 

2.  Mrs.  Mary :  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  "  Mrs."  was 
regularly  prefixed  to  the  name  of  an  unmarried  lady  or  girl. 

Page  79. 

3.  baby  :  doll,  a  common  usage. 

4.  gossiping :  christening. 

Page  80. 

5.  a  point  of  war :  a  martial  tune.    Cf.  2  Henry  /F,  IV,  i,  52. 

Page  81. 

6.  Don  Bellianis  of  Greece  :  the  first  of  these  heroes  belonged  to  a 
Spanish  romance  of  the  sixteenth  century,  translated  into  English  in  i  598 
as  The  Honour  of  Chivalry. ^  Set  downe  in  the  most  Famous  Historie 
of  .  .  .  Prince  Don  Bellianis,  and  reprinted  frequently  in  the  next  two 
hundred  years.  The  adventures  of  Guy  of  Warwick  formed  the  subject  of 
a  romance  popular  in  England  from  at  least  the  thirteenth  century;  the 


NOTES  413 

story  could  still  be  read  in  1709  in  as  many  as  five  versions,  all  the  work 
of  the  preceding  thirty  years  (see  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language 
Association,  XXX  (191 5),  165-187).  The  "Seven  Champions"  were 
St.  George  of  England,  St.  Denis  of  France,  St.  James  of  Spain,  St.  An- 
thony of  Italy,  St.  Andrew  of  Scotland,  St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  and  St.  David 
of  Wales.  Their  story,  as  told  by  Richard  Johnson  in  a  romance  first 
published  in  1 596,  remained  exceedingly  popular  with  children  and  country 
people  until  well  into  the  eighteenth  century.  John  Hickathrift,  or  Hicker- 
thrift,  was  one  of  numerous  popular  English  heroes  who  rose  from  poverty 
to  greatness  by  their  bodily  prowess.  Bevis  of  Southampton  was  the  chief 
personage  of  a  medieval  romance  similar  to  Guy  of  H  \iyivick  in  character 
and  of  about  the  same  date ;  it,  too,  circulated  in  versions  of  the  late 
seventeenth  century.  Summaries  of  most  of  these  stories,  together  with 
reproductions  of  the  crude  woodcuts  which  adorned  the  editions  in  which 
Mr.  Bickerstaff's  young  friend  probably  read  them,  will  be  found  in 
John  Ashton's  Chap-books  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  (London,  1882). 
7.  sprites  :  spirits. 

The  Club  at  the  Trumpet 
Page  82. 

1.  Motto:  Cicero,  De  Scnectutc  46:  "I  hold  myself  obliged  to  old  age, 
which  has  improved  my  desire  after  knowledge  and  taken  it  away  from 
eating  and  drinking." 

2.  the  Trumpet :  this  tavern  was  located  in  Shire  Lane,  near  Temple 
Bar,  on  the  site  of  the  present  Law  Courts. 

Page  83. 

3.  the  last  civil  wars:  the  Great  Rebellion  of  1 642-1 649.  The  actions 
mentioned  on  this  and  the  next  two  pages  all  occurred  during  this  struggle  : 
Marston  Moor  in  1644,  the  rising  of  the  London  apprentices  in  1647, 
Naseby  in  1645,  and  Edgehill,  the  first  battle  of  the  war,  in  1642. 

4.  a  bencher  of  the  neighbouring  inn :  the  Inns  of  Court  comprise  four 
groups  of  buildings  —  the  Inner  Temple,  the  Middle  Temple,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  and  Gray's  Inn  —  all  situated  near  the  central  part  of  London,  and 
belonging  to  legal  societies  which  have  the  exclusive  right  of  admitting 
persons  to  practice  at  the  bar.  A  "  bencher  "  is  a  senior  member  of  one 
of  these  societies. 

5.  Jack  Ogle:  a  famous  character  about  town  in  the  time  of  Charles  II, 
well  known  as  a  gambler  and  duelist. 

6.  Hudibras  :  a  satiriad  poem  on  the  Puritans,  written  by  Samuel  Butler 
(1612-1680),  and  published  in  three  parts  between  1663  and  167S.    It  was 


414  THE  ENGLISH   FAMHJAR   ESSAY 

written  in  octosyllabic  couplets,  many  of  which  on  account  of  their  pointed 
sense  and  unexpected  rimes  have  become  familiar  quotations.  For  an 
example  see  the  next  note. 

Page  84. 

7.  the  couplet  where  "a  stick"  rhymes  to  "ecclesiastic":   Hudibras 

I,  i,  11-12: 

And  Pulpit,  Drum  Ecclesiastick, 

Was  beat  with  fist,  instead  of  a  Stick. 

8.  red  petticoat :  the  story  of  Jack  alluded  to  here  is  to  the  effect  that 
once,  while  he  was  a  trooper  in  the  Guards,  having  pawned  his  own  coat, 
he  was  compelled  to  appear  on  parade  in  his  landlady's  red  petticoat. 

1\\(;e  85. 

9.  Nestor :  the  oldest  of  the  Greek  chieftains  engaged  in  the  siege  of 
Troy.    Cf.  Iliad  i,  249. 

10.  "  His  tongue  dropped  manna  "  :  Paradise  Lost^  ii,  11 2-1 13. 

The  Character  of  Tom  Folio 
Page  86. 

1.  Motto:  Terence,  jl/idria,  Prologue,  17:  "While  they  endeavour  to 
show  their  learning,  they  make  it  appear  that  they  understand  nothing." 

2.  Aldus  and  Elzevir,  Harry  Stephans  :  printers  famous  for  their  edi- 
tions of  the  classics.  Aldus  Manutius  (cir.  1450-15 15)  was  the  founder 
of  the  celebrated  Aldine  press  at  Venice.  Elzevir  was  the  name  of  a  family 
of  Dutch  printers  whose  greatest  activity  fell  between  about  1625  and  1650. 
Harry  Stephans  (/'/'.  Henri  Estienne)  was  the  name  of  two  French  printers 
of  the  sixteenth  century  —  Henri  Estienne  (1470- 15  20),  the  founder  of  the 
family,  and  his  grandson,  Henri  Estienne  II  (i 528-1 598).  The  allusion 
here  is  probably  to  Henri  Estienne  II,  who  was  a  classical  scholar  and 
editor  as  well  as  a  printer. 

3.  flashy  :  without  substance,  trashy. 

Page  87. 

4.  a  late  paper  :   Tatler  1 54. 

5.  .aineas  :   Cf.  Ai^neid  v\,  893  ff. 

6.  Daniel  Heinsius'  edition:  Heinsius  (i 580-1655)  was  a  celebrated 
Dutch  classical  scholar  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Plis  edition  of  Virgil 
was  published  in  1636. 

Page  88. 

7.  Tasso  :  an  Italian  poet  of  the  sixteenth  century  (i  544-1  595),  the  author 
oi  Jerusalem  Delivered,  one  of  the  great  epic  poems  of  the  Renaissance. 


NOTES  415 

8.  Pastor  Fido  :  an  Italian  pastoral  drama  by  Guarini  (i  537-161  2). 

9.  the  character :  the  type. 

10.  sonnet:  even  as  late  as  the  early  eighteenth  century  the  term 
"  sonnet "  was  frequently  used  to  designate  any  short  lyrical  poem, 
especially  one  dealing   with   love. 

1 1 .  various  readings :  the  pedantry  of  editors  of  the  classics  was  a 
favorite  topic  of  satire  with  Addison.  In  Spectator  470  he  ridicules  at 
length  the  practice  of  printing  after  the  text  of  a  poem  the  different  readings, 
good  and  bad,  of  all  the  manuscripts  in  which  it  was  found. 

[2.  six  lines  of  Boileau  :  Satires  iv,  5-10:  "a  pedant  drunk  with  his 
vain  knowledge,  bristling  with  Greek  and  puffed  up  with  arrogance ;  who 
out  of  a  thousand  authors  remembered  word  for  word  and  heaped  up 
in  his  brain  has  often  made  only  nonsense ;  who  believes  that  a  book 
does  everything,  and  that  without  Aristotle  Reason  itself  cannot  see,  and 
Good  Sense  wanders." 

Recollections 

Page  89. 

1.  Motto:  Virgil,  ^-/i;/tvV/ V,  49  : 

And  now  the  rising  day  renews  the  year, 
(A  day  forever  sad,  forever  dear). 

Page  90. 

2.  battledore:  an  instrument  resembling  a  racket  used  in  the  game  of 
battledore  and  shuttlecock. 

Page  92. 

3.  wine,  of  the  same  sort  with  that  which  is  to  be  put  to  sale  on 
Thursday  next  at  Garraway's  Coffee-house  :  a  bit  of  puffing  on  Steele's 
part.  The  sale  was  formally  announced  among  the  advertisements  in  the 
same  issue. 

False  Refinements  in  Style 

Page  93. 

1 .  a  Grub  Street  book  :  a  worthless,  commercial  production  ;  so  called 
from  a  street  in  London  (now  Milton  Street)  formerly  "  much  inhabited  by 
writers  of  small  histories,  dictionaries,  and  temporary  poems"  (Dr.  Johnson). 

2.  Westminster  Hall :  the  building,  near  the  site  of  the  present  Parlia- 
ment Houses,  in  which  the  Law  Courts  sat. 

3.  the  Court  of  Requests:  a  court  of  equity  intended  for  the  trial  of 
small  civil  cases. 


4l6  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  94. 

4.  the  Jacks  :  Jacobites,  the  supporters  of  the  exiled  Stuarts. 

5.  altogether  of  the  Gothic  strain :  "  Gothic,"  originally  applied  to  the 
productions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  had  come  by  the  beginning  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  to  have  the  general  meaning  of  "  barbarous,"  "  rude," 
"  unpolished." 

6.  phizz,  etc.  :  while  the  origin  of  most  of  these  words  is  evident  from 
the  context  in  which  they  are  used  in  the  letter,  one  or  two  perhaps  require 
a  word  of  explanation.  "  Hipps  "  is  an  abbreviation  of  "hypochondria"; 
"  mobb  "  of  Latin  mobile  vulgiis  through  mobile  (which  was  used  in  the 
same  sense  during  the  seventeenth  century);  "  plenipo  "  (on  page  95),  of 
"  plenipotentiary." 

Page  95. 

7.  The  war  has  introduced  abundance  of  polysyllables  :  Swift's  meaning 
in  this  sentence  is  not  altogether  clear.  "  The  war  "  can  refer  only  to  the 
War  of  the  Spanish  Succession  (1701-1713);  yet  an  examination  of  the 
passages  cited  in  the  Oxford  Dictionary  shows  that  of  the  eight  words  he 
mentions  as  introduced  by  "the  war,"  five  —  the  last  five  —  were  in  use 
in  England  considerably  earlier. 

8.  banter,  bamboozle,  etc. :  in  spite  of  Swift's  efforts  at  least  three  of 
these  words  —  "banter,"  "bamboozle,"  and  "mobb"  —  have  survived  in 
modern  English  speech.  A  "  country  put "  was  a  lout  or  bumpkin. 
"  Kidney "  was  slang  for  temperament  or  nature. 

9.  your  authority  as  Censor:  see  Taller  162. 

I  o.  Index  Expurgatorius  :  an  allusion  to  the  lists  of  books  which  Catho- 
lics are  forbidden  to  read,  issued  at  frequent  intervals  since  the  sixteenth 
century. 

1 1 .  sham,  etc. :  of  the  words  in  this  list  not  explained  above,  and  no 
longer  in  common  use,  "sham"  meant  a  trick  or  hoax;  "bubble,"  to 
delude  or  cheat;  "  bully,"  a  blustering  "gallant,"  or  perhaps  the  protector 
of  a  prostitute ;   "  palming,"  playing  a  trick  or  cheating. 

Page  96. 

12.  simplex  munditiis  :  "of  simple  elegance."  The  phrase  occurs  in 
Horace,  Odes  1,  v,  5. 

13.  Hooker:  Richard  Hooker  (cir.  1553-1600),  author  of  TJic  Laws  of 
Ecclesiasiical  Polily,  an  elaborate  and  eloquent  justification  of  the  Church 
of  England. 

14.  Parsons  the  Jesuit:  Roljert  Parsons  (i  546-1 610),  an  English  Catho- 
lic sent  in  15.S0  by  the  Pope  to  attempt  the  conversion  of  England  to  the 
Church  of  Rome.    His  chief  literary  work  was  A  Christian  Directory. 


NOTES  417 

15.  Wotton  :  Sir  Henry  Wolton  (1568-1639)  was  English  ambassador 
at  Venice  and  the  author  of  a  number  of  poems  and  miscellaneous  treatises. 

16.  Naunton  :  Sir  Robert  Naunton  (i  563-1635)  is  best  known  as  the 
writer  of  Fragtnenta  Regalia,  a  series  of  descriptions  of  the  chief  person- 
ages at  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

17.  Osborn  :  probably  Francis  Osborne  (i  593-1659);  his  chief  work  was 
Ad-dice  to  a  Son  (1656,  1658). 

18.  Daniel:  Samuel  Daniel  (i  562-1619),  an  Elizabethan  poet  and 
historian,   the  author  of  A  History  of  England. 

On  Conversation 

1.  Motto:   Horace,  Epistles  I,  iv,  8-9: 

,What  could  a  nurse  for  her  dear  child  wish  more 
Than  that  he  might  be  sober  whilst  he  lives, 
And  able  to  express  what  he  conceives. 

Page  99. 

2.  the  pedant:  compare  Addison's  definition  of  pedantry,  pp.  86-89,  above. 

3.  ubiquitary  :  omnipresent. 

THE  SPECTATOR 

The  present  text  of  the  Spectator  follows,  except  for  details  of  spelling 
and  punctuation.  Professor  Gregory  Smith's  reprint  of  the  first  collected 
edition  of  1712-1715  (London,  1897-1898;  Everyman's  Library,  1907). 

The  Character  of  Mr.  Spectator 
Page  ioi. 

1.  Motto:   Worz.Q.&,  Ars  Poetica  \\-^-\\\: 

He  strikes  out  light  from  smoke,  not  smoke  from  light, 
New  scenes  of  wonder  opening  to  the  sight. 

2.  black  or  a  fair  man  :  a  man  of  dark  or  light  complexion. 

V\v,v.  103. 

3.  Will's,  etc.  :  the  location  of  some  of  these  coffee-houses  is  given  above 
(note  3  to  page  74).  Of  the  others.  Child's  was  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard ; 
the  Cocoa-tree  (a  Tory  house),  in  St.  James  Street;  and  Jonathan's  (accord- 
ing to  the  Taflcr  "  the  general  mart  for  stock-jobbers  ")  in  'Change  Alley, 
Cornhill. 

4.  the  Postman  :  one  of  the  principal  newspapers  of  the  day,  published 
on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays. 


41 8  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

5.  politics  :   politicians. 

6.  blots  :  in  backgammon  the  exposure  of  a  piece  or  "  man  "  so  that  it 
is  liable  to  be  taken  or  forfeited  is  called  a  blot. 

Page  105. 

7.  Mr.  Buckley's :  Samuel  Buckley  was  the  first  publisher  of  the  Spectator. 
His  address  was  "  the  Dolphin  in  Little  Britain." 

The  Spectator  Club 

1.  Motto  :  Juvenal,  Satires  vii,  166-167  :  "  But  six  others  or  more  cry 
out  with  one  voice." 

2.  my  Lord  Rochester:  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester  (i 647-1680),  a 
poet  and  man  of  fashion  in  the  time  of  Charles  11.  Pepys  said  of  him  in 
his  Diary  (Feb.  17,  1669)  that  it  was  "to  the  King's  everlasting  shame  to 
have  so  idle  a  rogue  his  companion." 

3.  Sir  George  Etherege  :  a  comic  dramatist  of  the  Restoration  period 
(cir.  1 63 5- 1 691),  a  companion  of  Rochester  in  many  wild  escapades.  In 
1676  both  men  were  obliged  to  leave  England  on  account  of  a  brawl. 

4.  Bully  Dawson  :  a  celebrated  London  sharper,  contemporary  with 
Etherege  and   Rochester. 

Page  106. 

5.  a  justice  of  the  quorum  :  one  of  the  justices  of  peace  of  a  county, 
whose  presence  was  necessary  to  constitute  a  court. 

6.  a  quarter  session :  a  local  county  court  meeting  every  quarter. 

7.  Inner  Temple  :  see  note  4  to  page  S3. 

8.  Aristotle  and  Longinus :  two  ancient  Greek  critics  whose  reputation 
was  especially  high  during  the  period  of  neoclassicism.  Longinus  (210- 
273  A.D.)  was  the  reputed  author  of  a  treatise  On  t/ie  Sitblijiie.  Aristotle's 
(384-322  B.C.)  critical  work  was  the  Poetics,  an  essay  treating  principally 
of  the  laws  of  drama. 

9.  Littleton  or  Coke:  Sir  Thomas  Littleton  (1402-1481),  an  English 
jurist,  was  the  author  of  a  work  on  land  tenures  which,  with  the  commen- 
tary by  Sir  Edward  Coke  (i 552-1 634),  was  long  the  authority  on  the 
English  law  of  real  property. 

Page  109. 

10.  Duke  of  Monmouth  :  an  illegitimate  son  of  Charles  IT,  much  admired 
in  English  society  for  his  fine  manners  and  elegant  dancing.  In  1685  he 
attempted  a  rebellion  against  his  uncle  James  II,  but  was  defeated  and 
executed. 


NOTES  419 

Popular  Superstitions 
Page  i  i  o. 

1.  Motto:  Horace,  Epistles  II,  ii,  208-209: 

At  magic  miracles,  hobgoblins,  dreams. 
And  the  portents  of  Thessaly  dost  laugh  ? 

Page  hi. 

2.  join-hand :  writing  in  which  the  letters  are  joined  in  words  —  the  second 
stage  which  an  eighteenth-century  boy  went  through  in  learning  to  write. 

3.  Childermas-day:  the  popular  term  for  the  festival  of  the  Holy  Inno- 
cents (December  28),  a  day  on  which,  according  to  a  common  superstition, 
"  it  was  impossible  to  have  good  luck  "  in  any  undertaking.  The  allusion 
to  Thursday,  March  8,  as  "  Childermas-day,"  and  Mr.  Spectator's  reflection 
on  the  losing  of  "  a  day  in  every  week,"  have  puzzled  several  editors.  Both 
remarks  become  clear,  however,  if  one  remembers  that  "  Childennas-day  " 
also  signified  "  the  day  of  the  week  throughout  the  year  answering  to  the 
day  in  which  the  feast  of  the  Holy  Innocents  is  solemnized  "  (Dr.  Johnson), 
and  that  in  1710  (reckoning  the  year,  according  to  the  old  style  still  in  use 
in  the  early  eighteenth  century-,  as  extending  to  March  25)  the  feast  fell 
on  Thursday. 

4.  the  battle  of  Almanza :  a  battle  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succes- 
sion, in  which  the  English  under  Lord  Galway  were  defeated  by  the  French 
and  Spaniards.    It  was  fought  April  25,  1707. 

Page  i  12. 

5.  merry-thought :  the  wishbone. 

Page  113. 

6.  death-watches  :  a  popular  name  for  certain  insects  which  make  a 
noise  like  the  ticking  of  a  watch  —  supposed  to  portend  death. 

The  Purpose  of  the  Spectator 
Page  i  14. 

1.  Motto:  Virgil,  Georgics  \^  201-203: 

So  the  boat's  crew  against  the  current  row, 
But  if  they  slack  their  hands  or  cease  to  strive, 
Down  with  the  flood  with  headlong  haste  they  drive. 

2.  My  publisher  tells  me :  "  The  circulation  of  the  Spectator,''''  says 
Professor  Gregory  Smith  in  his  note  on  this  passage,  "  is  said  to  have  risen 
from  3000  to  4000,  to  20,000,  and  even  to  30,000  copies.  Ten  thousand 
copies  probably  represented  the  average  issue  during  the  closing  months  of 
the  daily  issue."    These  figures,  whatever  their  source,  are  curiouslv  out  of 


420  THE  ENGLISfl   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

harmony  with  the  evidence  as  to  circulation  presented  by  the  essays  them- 
selves. After  his  statement  in  No.  lo,  Addison  said  no  more  about  the  sale 
of  the  Spectator  until  No.  262  (Dec.  31,  i  71 1),  when  he  remarked  that  the 
demand  for  his  papers  had  "  increased  every  month  since  their  first  appear- 
ance in  the  world."'  On  July  31  of  the  next  year,  speaking  of  the  Stamp 
Tax  of  a  halfpenny  on  each  half-sheet  which  was  to  go  into  effect  the  next 
day,  and  anticipating  a  falling-off  in  circulation,  he  declared  that  he  would 
be  pleased  if  his  country  received  five  or  six  pounds  a  day  by  his  labors. 
Now  five  or  six  pounds  a  day  in  taxes  implies  a  daily  circulation  of  no 
more  than  2800  copies  —  surely  a  modest  enough  expectation  if  the  circu- 
lation before  the  Stamp  Tax  was  imposed  was  really  as  large  as  Professor 
Smith  supposes.  Even  these  hopes,  however,  proved  to  be  too  high.  In 
the  last  number  of  the  daily  issue  (No.  555,  Dec.  6,  171 2)  Steele  reckoned 
that  the  tax  on  each  half-sheet  had  netted  the  Stamp  Office  on  the  aver- 
age something  above  twenty  pounds  a  week  —  a  sum  implying  an  average 
daily  circulation  of  perhaps  a  little  over  1 600.  As  he  stated  also  that  at  first 
the  tax  had  reduced  the  sale  to  "  less  than  half  the  number  that  was  usually 
printed  before  this  tax  was  laid,"'  we  are  forced  to  conclude  that  at  no  time 
could  the  daily  circulation  of  the  Spectator  have  been  very  much  over  3200. 
This  was  somewhat  above  the  circulation  enjoyed  in  1710  by  the  official 
newspaper,  TJie  London  Gazette.    See  T/ie  Natio/i.,  July  8,  191 5,  p.  70. 

3.  It  was  said  of  Socrates  :  Cicero,  Tusculajia  Quccstioiies  v,  10. 

Page  i  15. 

4.  Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes :  Advancevient  of  Learning,  ii.  Intro- 
duction,  ^14. 

5.  fellows  of  the  Royal  Society  :  the  Royal  Society  for  the  advancement 
of  mathematics  and  the  natural  sciences  was  incorporated  in  1662  after  an 
informal  existence  of  several  years.  Its  president  in  171  i  was  Sir  Isaac 
Newton.  Addison  and  Steele  in  their  advocacy  of  a  general  literary  culture 
found  much  to  ridicule  in  the  specialization  which  was  characteristic  of 
members  of  the  Society.  "  They  seem,"  Steele  wrote  in  Tatler  236,  "  to 
be  in  a  confederacy  against  men  of  polite  genius,  noble  thought,  and  dif- 
fusive learning,  and  choose  into  their  assemblies  such  as  have  no  pretence 
to  wisdom  but  want  of  wit,  or  to  natural  knowledge  but  ignorance  of  every- 
thing else.  I  have  made  observations  in  this  matter  .so  long  that  when  I 
meet  with  a  young  fellow  that  is  an  humble  admirer  of  these  sciences,  but 
more  dull  than  the  rest  of  the  company,  I  conclude  him  to  be  a  Fellow  of 
the  Royal  Society." 

6.  Templars :  barristers  who  were  members  of  the  Middle  or  Inner 
Temple.    See  note  4  to  page  83. 


NOTES  ■  421 

Ill-nature  in  Satire 
Page  117. 

1.  Motto:  Virgil,  y^Efieid'ix,  420-421  : 

Fierce  Volscens  foams  with  rage,  and  gazing  round 
Descried  not  him  who  gave  the  fatal  wound, 
Nor  knew  to  fix  revenge 

Page  118. 

2.  a  passage  in  Socrates's  behaviour  at  his  death  :  see  Plato's  Phcrdo. 

3.  Aristophanes  :  the  greatest  Greek  writer  of  comedy  (cir.  450-cir.  380 
B.C.).    He  attacked  Socrates  in  The  Clouds. 

Page  i  19. 

4.  Catullus  :  Roman  lyric  poet  (cir.  87-cir.  54  B.C.).  For  the  passage 
alluded  to  in  the  text  see  Carniina  xxix. 

5.  Cardinal  Mazarine:  French  statesman  and  ecclesiastic  (i 602-1 661), 
the  successor  of  Richelieu  as  prime  minister.  The  Callipcrdia  of  Claude 
Quillet,  in  which  the  Cardinal's  Sicilian  birth  was  made  the  subject  of  a 
jest,  appeared  in  1655. 

6.  Sextus  Quintus  :  Sixtus  V,  Pope  from  1585  to  1590. 

7.  Pasquin :  an  Italian  of  the  late  fifteenth  century,  variously  described 
as  a  tailor,  a  cobbler,  and  a  barber.  His  name  was  applied  to  a  statue  near 
the  Braschi  Palace  in  Rome,  on  which  the  populace  were  wont  to  affix 
lampoons,  or  "  pasquinades." 

8.  Aretine  :  Pietro  Aretino  (1492-1  556),  a  famous  and  influential  Italian 
satirist,  commonly  known  as  the  "Scourge  of  Princes." 

Page  120. 

9.  a  fable  out  of  Sir  Roger  I'Estrange :  I'Estrange  (1616-1704)  pub- 
lished in  1692  a  translation  of  /Esop's  Fables.,  which  was  frequently 
reprinted,  and  remained  for  a  long  time  the  most  widely  cead  version. 
A  fourth  edition  appeared  in   1 704. 

Meditations  in  Westminster  Abbey 
Page  121. 

I.  Motto:  Horace,  Odes  I,  iv,  13  ff. : 

Intruding  death,  with  equal  freedom,  greets 

The  low-built  huts  and  stately  gates 
Of  lofty  palaces  and  royal  seats. 
Be  wise,  O  Sestius !  to  prolong  forbear. 

Since  life  is  short,  thy  hopes  and  care ; 
The  fabled  shades  and  gloomy  state  draw  near. 


423  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  122. 

2.  Homer:  //tad xv'u,  216. 

3.  Virgil:  ^/i/ie/d vi,  48;^. 

4.  in  holy  writ:  The  Wisdom  of  Solomon  v,  12-13. 

Page  123. 

5.  Blenheim :  an  English  victory  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession 
(1701-1713),  won  August  13,  1704.  Addison  celebrated  it  at  the  time  in 
his  poem  T/ir  Cauipaigii  (1705). 

6.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel:  an  English  admiral  (cir.  1 650-1  707).  He  met 
his  death  by  drowning  when  his  ship  was  wrecked  off  the  Scilly  Islands. 

Coffee-house  Company 
Page  124. 

1.  Motto:  Martial,  A/^/^/v/wj- X,  iv,  I  o  :  "  Our  book  most  strongly  savors 
of  the  man." 

2.  coffee-houses  :  for  an  extended  description  of  the  London  coffee-houses 
of  the  early  eighteenth  century,  see  Ashton,  Social  Life  in  ike  Reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  chaps,  xviii,  xix. 

Page  125. 

3.  Westminster :  where  the  Law  Courts  were  situated. 

4.  coffee-houses  adjacent  to  the  law  :  near  the  Inns  of  Court. 

Page  127. 

5.  Tom  the  Tyrant :  the  head  waiter  at  White's  Coffee-house. 

The  Journal  of  the  Indian  Kings 
According  to  Swift  the  ultimate  source  of  this  paper  was  a  hint  given 
by  him  to  Steele.  In  the  foKrnal  to  Stella  on  April  28  he  wrote:  "The 
Spectator  is  written  by  Steele  with  Addison's  help ;  't  is  often  very  pretty. 
Yesterday  it  was  made  of  a  noble  hint  I  gave  him  long  ago  for  his  Tat  lets, 
about  an  Indian  supposed  to  write  his  travels  into  England.  I  repent  he 
ever  had  it.  I  intended  to  have  written  a  book  on  that  subject.  I  believe 
he  has  spent  it  all  in  one  paper,  and  all  the  under  hints  there  are  mine  too." 
The  essay  belongs  to  a  large  group  of  similar  satires,  of  which  the  best 
known  in  English  is  Goldsmith's  Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  tlie  World. 
For  a  partial  list  see  Wendell  and  Greenough,  Selections  front  t/ie  Writings 
offoseph  Addison.,  p.  306  (Ginn  and  Company,  Boston,  1905). 

Page  128. 

I.  Motto:  Juvenal,  Satires  xiv,  321  :  "  Nature  and  Wisdom  always  say 
the  same." 


NOTES  423 

2.  the  four  Indian  kings:  in  April  1710  four  (or,  according  to  some 
reports,  fivej  Iroquois  chieftains  paid  a  visit  to  England.  Their  ostensible 
purpose  was  to  urge  Queen  Anne  to  drive  the  French  out  of  Canada ;  in 
reality  their  visit  was  a  scheme  of  the  English  colonial  authorities  to  im- 
press them  with  the  greatness  of  England.  During  their  stay  in  London 
they  received  a  good  deal  of  attention :  their  portraits  were  painted  and 
engraved  ;  their  alleged  speech  before  the  queen  was  circulated  in  pam- 
phlet form ;  ballads  were  written  about  them ;  and  Steele  introduced  an 
account  of  them  into  the  Tlr/Av- (No.   171,  May  13,  1710). 

3.  the  Six  Nations  :  the  "  Six  Nations,"  or  Iroquois  Confederacy,  were 
formed  out  of  the  earlier  "  Five  Nations"  by  the  accession  of  the  Tuscaroras. 
As  this  event  did  not  take  place  until  some  time  between  1712  and  1722 
{Handbook  of  American  Indians,  Part  II,  pp.  846-S47),  it  is  difficult  to 
see  how  Addison  came  by  the  name  in  1711. 

The  Education  of  Girls 
Page  131. 

1.  Motto:  Horace,  Odes  III,  vi,  21-24: 

The  blooming  virgin,  ripe  for  man, 

A  thousand  wanton  airs  displays  ; 
Trained  to  the  dance,  her  well-wrought  limbs  she  moves, 

And  sates  her  wishing  soul  with  loose  incestuous  loves. 

2.  The  two  following  letters  :  according  to  Henry  Morley,  these  letters 
were  written  by  John  Hughes  (i 677-1 720),  a  critic  and  miscellaneous 
writer  and  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  Spectato>: 

3.  the  Belle  Sauvage  :  see  Spectator  28. 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  Home 
Page  133. 

1.  Motto:   Horace,  Odes  I,  xvii,  14-16: 

Here  to  thee  shall  Plenty  flow. 

And  all  her  riches  show, 

To  raise  the  honours  of  the  quiet  plain. 

Page  136. 

2.  the  bishop  of  St.  Asaph :  the  allusion  may  be  either  to  William 
Beveridge  (1637-1708)  or  to  William  Fleetwood  (1656-1723),  probably 
to  the  former. 

3.  Dr.  South:  Robert  South  (i 633-1 716),  one  of  the  most  admired 
English  preachers  of  the  time. 


424  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

4.  Archbishop  Tillotson  :  John  Tillotson  (i  630-1 694),  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury   from    1691    to   his  death. 

5.  Dr.  Barrow:   Isaac  Barrow  (1630-1677). 

6.  Dr.  Calamy  :  Benjamin  Calamy  (i  642-1 686). 

The  Character  of  Will  Wimble 
Page  137. 

1.  Motto:  Phasdrus,  Fables  II,  v,  3  :  "Puffing  hard,  and  making  much 
to-do  about  nothing." 

2.  the  character  ...  of  the  gentleman  :  "  The  passage  following,"  write 
Professors   Wendell   and    Greenough    {Selections  from   the    Writings   of 

fosepJi  Addison,  p.  313)  "  makes  this  paper  especially  interesting  in  the 
development  of  character  writing  in  England.  It  shows  the  formal  char- 
acter embedded  in  what  is  almost  a  scene  from  a  novel ;  furthermore,  it 
shows  the  character  differing  from  the  earlier  work  of  Overbury,  Earle, 
and  others,  in  that  the  person  here  has  a  name,  and  that  the  characteriza- 
tion of  him,  though  not  in  direct  discourse,  is  really  put  into  the  mouth  of 
one  of  the  other  persons  in  the  story."    See  Introduction,  pp.  xxxi-xxxii. 

3.  May-fly :  here  of  course  an  artificial  fly  made  in  imitation  of  the 
May-fly. 

The  Story  of  Eudoxus  and  Leontine 
Page  140. 

1.  Motto:  Horace,  Odes  IV,  iv,  33-36: 

Yet  the  best  blood  by  learning  is  refined, 
And  virtue  arms  the  solid  mind ; 
Whilst  vice  will  stain  the  noblest  race, 
And  the  paternal  stamp  efface. 

Page  141. 

2.  according  to  Mr.  Cowley  :  Addison  was  thinking  of  the  following 
sentence  of  Cowley's  essay  on  "  The  Danger  of  Procrastination  "  :  "  But 
there  is  no  fooling  with  life,  when  it  is  once  turned  beyond  forty." 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 
Page  144. 

1 .  Motto  :  Virgil,  yEneid  ii,  604-606  : 

While  I  dissolve 

The  mists  and  films  that  mortal  eyes  involve, 
Purge  from  your  sight  the  dross 

2.  Grand  Cairo  :  see  Spectator  i . 


NOTES  425 

A  Coquette's  Heart 
Page  148. 

1 .  Motto :  Virgil,  jEneid  iv,  64 :  "  He  anxiously  the  panting  entrails 
views." 

2.  the  dissection  of  the  beau's  head  :  see  Spectator  275. 

PagI':  149. 

3.  mucro  :  the  top  or  sharp  point  of  anything. 
PA(iK  I  50. 

4.  a  Gordian  knot :  here  any  closely  or  intricately  tied  knot.  The  cutting 
of  the  original  Gordian  knot  (so  called  from  (".ordius,  king  of  Phrygia,  who 
tied  it)  was  one  of  the  exploits  of  Alexander  the  Great  most  celebrated 
in  legend. 

r  \(;k  151. 

5.  salamandrine  :  having  the  qualities  of  a  salamander,  which,  according 
to  popular  belief,  was  supposed  to  live  in  fire. 

Clarinda'.s  Journal 

1 .  Motto :  Ovid,  MctauiorpJioscs  iv,  280  :  "  One  while  a  man,  another 
while  a  woman." 

2.  The  journal  with  which  I  presented  my  reader  :  the  journal  of  a  citizen. 
See  Spectator  3  i  7. 

3.  Mohock:  "One  of  a  class  of  aristocratic  rufifians  who  infested  the 
streets  of  London  in  the  early  years  of  the  eighteenth  century "  (New 
English  Dictionary).  They  seem  to  have  been  especially  active  in  1712. 
See  Ashton,  Social  Life  in  tJie  Reign  of  Queen  Anne,  chap,  xxxvii,  and 
Spectator  324,  in  which  a  correspondent  describes  the  usages  of  the 
Mohock  Club. 

Page  i  52. 

4.  an  exercise:  an  allusion  to  Addison's  words  in  Spectator  317:  "I 
would  .  .  .  recommend  to  every  one  of  my  readers  the  keeping  a  journal  of 
their  lives  for  one  week  and  setting  down  punctually  their  whole  series  of 
employments  during  that  space  of  time." 

5.  a  new  head :  a  new  method  of  hairdressing. 
Page  i  53. 

6.  basset :  an  obsolete  game  of  cards,  resembling  faro,  popular  in  the 
early  eighteenth  century. 

7.  punted  :  a  term  in  basset,  meaning  "  laid  a  stake  against  the  bank." 

8.  Aurengzebe :  the  title  of  one  of  Dryden's  "  heroic  dramas "  (pub- 
lished  1676). 


426  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

9.  tire-woman  :  a  lady's  maid. 

10.  crimp  :  an  obsolete  game  of  cards. 

1 1 .  Cupid  and  Veny  :   familiar  names  for  lapdogs.    Veny  =  Venus. 

1 2.  skuttle  :   a  mincing,  affected  method  of  walking. 

13.  Indamora :  the  name  of  a  captive  queen  in  Dryden's  Aurengsebe. 

Page  i  54. 

14.  Nicolini :  Nicolino  (Irimaldi  (i  673-1  726),  an  Italian  opera  singer 
who  came  to  England  in  i  708  and  was  immensely  popular  with  English 
society. 

I  5.  mobs  :  the  word  may  signify  either  a  type  of  loosely  fitting  cap  much 
worn  at  the  time,  or  neglige  attire  in  general.  The  latter  meaning  appears 
in  the  following  phrase  from  Spectator  302:  "wrapping  gowns  and  dirty 
linen,  with  all  that  huddled  economy  of  dress  which  passes  under  the 
general  name  of  a  mob." 

16.  dumb  man:  Duncan  Campbell  (i68o.?-i  730),  a  dumb  astrologer 
and  fortune  teller  much  in  demand  in  the  early  eighteenth  century.  He  is 
the  subject  of  one  of  Defoe's  pamphlets. 

Page  155. 

17.  an  uncertain  author:  probably  William  Browne  (i  591-1643  ?),  best 
known  as  a  writer  of  pastoral  poetry.  The  lines  have,  however,  been 
attributed  to  Ben  Jonson. 

Cheerbttlness 

I.   Motto:   Horace,  Odes  H,  iii,  1-4: 

An  even  mind  in  every  state, 
Amidst  the  frowns  and  smiles  of  fate, 

Dear  mortal  Delias  always  show. 
Let  not  too  much  of  cloudy  fear. 
Nor  too  intemperate  joys  appear. 

Or  to  contract  or  to  extend  thy  brow. 

Literary  Taste 
Page  159. 

1.  Motto:   Lucretius,  De  Reniin  Natura  i,  933  : 

To  hit 

Each  subject  with  the  best  address  and  wit. 

2.  Gratian:  Baltasar  Gracidn  (d.  1658),  a  Spanish  Jesuit,  the  author  of 
an  important  and  influential  treatise  on  style. 

3.  sensitive  :  pertaining  to  the  senses  as  opposed  to  the  mind. 


NOTES  427 

Page  160. 

4.  Livy  :  Titus  Livius  (59  B.C. -17  a.d.),  the  historian  of  the  early  days 
of  Rome. 

5.  Sallust :  Roman  historian  (S6-34B.C.);  his  two  chief  works  dealt 
with  the  conspiracy  of  Catiline  and  the  Jugurthine  War. 

Page  161. 

6.  Tacitus:  Roman  historian  (cir.  S5-cir.  117  a.d.). 

Page  162. 

7.  Corneille,  etc.  :  all  of  these  writers  were  Frenchmen  of  the  age  of 
Louis  XIV.  Corneille  (1606-1684)  and  Racine  (1639-1699)  were  writers 
of  tragedy;  Moliere  (1622-1673)  was  the  most  eminent  of  French  comic 
dramatists ;  La  Fontaine  ( 1 62 1 -i 695)  was  the  greatest  of  French  fabulists ; 
La  Bruyere  (i 645-1 696)  was  an  essayist  and  social  critic;  Boileau  (1636- 
171 1),  Le  Bossu  (1631-1680),  and  the  Daciers  —  Andre  (1651-1722)  and 
his  wife  Anne  ( 1654- 1720)  —  were  literary  critics. 

8.  Longinus  :  Diogenes  Cassius  Longinus  (cir.  210-273  A.D.),  a  Greek 
writer  and  statesman,  to  whom  has  been  attributed  one  of  the  best-known 
critical  works  of  antiquity,  a  treatise  On  tJic  Stibliiite. 

9.  forced  conceits :  extravagantly  ingenious  or  far-fetched  comparisons  and 
illustrations.  Antipathy  to  "conceits  "  was  one  of  the  distinguishing  marks 
of  the  "classical"  movement  in  English  poetry.  Cf.  Sptx/ator 62,  in  which 
Addison  contrasts  "  mixed  wit,"  or  conceit,  with  "  that  beautiful  simplicity 
which  we  so  much  admire  in  the  compositions  of  the  ancients." 

ID.  Gothic  :  on  this  word  see  note  5  to  page  94. 

11.  I  entertained  the  town  for  a  week:  May  7  to  May  12,  171  i.  See 
Spectator  5S-63. 

Page  163. 

12.  I  have  .  .  .  examined  the  works  of  the  greatest  poet:  AddLson's 
papers  on  Milton  appeared  in  the  Spectator  on  Saturdays  from  No.  267 
to  No.  369. 

13.  an  essay  on  The  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  :  see  Nos.  41 1-421. 

On  Raillery 

1.  Motto:  C\ce.ro,  EpistolcE  ad  Familiares  \\\,  i:  "  I  have  writ  this,  not 
'through  the  abundance  of  leisure,  but  of  love  towards  thee." 

Page  164. 

2.  Calisthenes  :  the  original  of  this  "  character  "  has  been  supposed  to 
be  Addison. 


428  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  i66. 

3.  Mr.  Congreve's  "Doris":  William  Congreve  (1670-1729),  though  he 
wrote  some  society  verse  of  the  type  quoted  by  Steele,  is  best  known  as  a 
comic  dramatist,  the  author  of  four  of  the  most  brilliantly  witty  comedies 
of  the  Restoration  school. 

On  Gardens 
Page  167. 

1.  Motto:  Horace,  Odes  III,  iv,  5-S : 

Or  airy  frenzies  cheat 

My  mind  well  pleased  with  the  deceit ! 

I  seem  to  hear,  I  seem  to  move, 

And  wander  through  the  happy  grove, 

Where  smooth  springs  flow,  and  murmuring  breeze 

Does  wanton  through  the  waving  trees. 

2.  your  thoughts  upon  some  of  our  English  gardens  :   see  Spectator  414. 

3.  kitchen  and  parterre  :  kitchen-garden  (or  vegetable  garden)  and 
flower   garden. 

Page  168. 

4.  plats  of  willow  :  plots  or  patches. 

5.  treillages :  trellises. 

6.  Wise  and  London :  a  celebrated  firm  of  London  gardeners,  largely 
responsible  for  the  vogue  in  England  of  the  formal  Dutch  garden,  against 
which  the  present  essay  was  one  of  the  earliest  protests. 

Page  169. 

7.  the  Pindaric  manner:  in  the  manner  of  Pindar  (cir.  522-443  B.C.), 
the  Greek  lyric  jjoet.  What  his  "  manner "  was  conceived  to  be  in  the 
early  eighteenth  century  appears  in  the  following  sentence  from  Spectator 
160  (by  Addison):  "  Pindar  was  a  great  genius  of  the  first  class,  who  was 
hurried  on  by  a  natural  fire  and  impetuosity  to  vast  conceptions  of  things, 
and  noble  sallies  of  imagination." 

Page  1  70. 

8.  that  vernal  delight  which  you  have  somewhere  taken  notice  of :  see 

Spectator  393. 


NOTES  429 

THE  RAMBLER 
The  text  of  the  Rambler  ^\ve.x\  here  is  based  upon  the  last  edition  revised 
by  Johnson,  as  reprinted  by  Chalmers  in  liriiish  Essayists  (1803). 

The  Folly  of  Anticipating  Misfortunes 
Page  171. 

1.  Motto:   Horace,  Odes  III,  xxix,  29-32: 

But  God  has  wisely  hid  from  human  sight 

The  dark  decrees  of  future  fate, 
And  sown  their  seeds  in  depth  of  night; 

He  laughs  at  all  the  giddy  turns  of  state, 

When  mortals  search  too  soon,  and  fear  too  late.  —  Dryden. 

Page  i  74. 

2.  old  Cornaro  :  I.uigi  Cornaro,  an  Italian  wrilrr  on  health,  the  author 
of  a  treatise  on  temperance  and  sobriety  (i5'S8j. 

Page  175. 

3.  Taylor:  Jeremy  Taylor  (i6i3-!667),  an  eloquent  EngHsh  divine  and 
religious  writer ;  his  chief  works  are  Ho/y  Living  and  Holy  Dying. 

The  Misery  of  a  Fashionable  Lady  in  the  Country 

1.  Motto:  Horace,  Epistles  I,  i,  23:  "How  heavily  my  time  revolves 
along." 

Page  i  78. 

2.  At  last  economy  prevailed  :  "  economy  "  is  used  here  in  the  sense 
of  domestic  management. 

THE  CITIZEN  OE  THE   WORLD 

Goldsmith's  Chinese  letters  were  originally  published  in  the  Public 
I^edgcr^  a  newspaper  edited  by  John  Newbery,  between  January  24,  i  760, 
and  August  14,  1761.  They  were  reissued  in  book  form  in  1762.  The 
present  text  is  that  of  the  third  edition  (1774). 

The  Chinese  Philosopher  in  England 
Page  180. 

I .  a  factor  at  Canton  :  a  commercial  agent. 

First  Impressions  of  England 
Page  182. 

I .  a  paltry  piece  of  painting  :  signs  were  still  largely  used  in  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century  to  designate  houses. 


430  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The  Character  of  Beau  Tibbs 
Page  192. 

I .  mandarine :  a  toy  representing  a  grotesque  seated  figure  in  Chinese 
costume. 

A  Visit  to  a  London  Silk  Merchant 
Page  194. 

I.  as  they  say  in  Cheapside  :  a  phrase  equivalent  to  "  as  they  say  among 
us  merchants."  Cheapside  is  a  street  in  the  City,  or  business  section  of 
London. 

CHARLES    LAMB 

Of  the  essays  inchided  in  this  selection,  "  Detached  Thoughts,"  "  Old 
China,"  "  Poor  Relations,"  and  "  The  Superannuated  Man  "  were  first  col- 
lected in  the  Last  Essays  of  Elia  (1833);  all  the  others  were  included 
in  the  Essays  of  Elia  (1S23). 

A  Bachelor's  Complaint  of  the  Behaviour  of  Married  People 
Page  19S. 

1 .  free  of  the  company  :  having  the  rights  and  privileges  of  membership 
in  the  guild. 

2.  bring  our  spices,  myrrh,  and  incense  :  probably  an  allusion  to  the 
gifts  of  the   Magi  to  the  infant  Jesus;  see   Matthew  ii,   11. 

3.  "  Like  as  the  arrows,"  etc.  :  see  Psalm  cxxvii,  4-5. 

Page  199. 

4.  per  se  :  of  themselves,  because  of  their  own  individuality. 

Page  200. 

5.  One  daisy  differs  not  much,  etc.  :  probably  a  recollection  of  i  Corin- 
thians XV,  4  [ . 

Page  201. 

6.  humorist :   an  eccentric  person. 

7.  "  decent  affection  and  complacent  kindness  "  :  from  Douglas,  I,  i,  43, 
a  tragedy  by  John  Home  (i  722-1 80S). 

Page  203. 

8.  Morellas  :  cultivated  dark  cherries,  named  after  a  town  in  Spain. 

Valentine's  Day 

I .  Archflamen :  a  flamen  was  a  Roman  priest  devoted  to  the  service  of 
a  particular  god. 


NOTES  431 

2.  tippet,  rochet :  ecclesiastical  garments,  the  former  a  kind  of  cape,  the 
latter  a  close-fitting  vestment  of  linen. 

3.  Jerome  :  Saint  Jerome  (d.  420),  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  Latin  church, 
translated  the  \' ulgate  version  of  the  Bible  from  Hebrew  into  Latin. 

4.  Ambrose  :  Saint  Ambrose  (d.  397),  Bishop  of  Milan  and  one  of  the 
fathers  of  the  Latin  church. 

5.  Cyril :  Saint  Cyril  (d.  444),  Archbishop  of  Alexandria  and  noted 
controversial  theologian. 

6.  Austin:  Saint  Augustine  (354-430),  the  most  famous  of  the  church 
fathers ;   he  taught  that  unbaptized  infants  were  damned. 

Page  204. 

7.  Origen  :  (d.  253),  one  of  the  Greek  fathers  of  the  church  and  a  prolific 
theological  writer ;  the  reason  for  Lamb's  statement  that  he  "  hated  all 
mothers "  is  not  apparent. 

8.  Bishop  Bull,  etc.  :   George  Bull  (i 634-1  710),  Bishop  of  St.  David's. 

9.  Archbishop  Parker:  Matthew  Parker  (i 504-1 575),  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

10.  Whitgift:  John  Whitgift  (i  530  ?-i6o4).  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
II.'"  Brush'd  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings"  :  Paradise  Lost,  i,  768. 

12.  "  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  throne  where  Hope  is  seated  "  :  see  Twelfth 
Night,  II,  iv,  21-22. 

Page  205. 

13.  the  raven  himself  was  hoarse,  etc.  :  see  Macbeth,  I,  v,  39-40. 

14.  "having  been  will  always  be":  see  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  the 
Intimations  of  Iniinortalit\',\\.  182-183. 

15.  E.  B. :  Edward  Burney  (1760-1848),  an  illustrator  and  the  brother 
of  Frances  Burney,  the  novelist. 

Page  206. 

1 6.  Ovid  :  Publius  Ovidius  Naso  (43  B.c.-i  7  or  1 8  a.d.),  one  of  the  great 
Roman  poets  of  the  Augustan  age ;  his  subjects  were  usually  amatory  or 
mythological. 

17.  Pyramus  and  Thisbe :  a  pair  of  devoted  and  unfortunate  lovers, 
whose  story  is  told  in   Ovid's  Metamorphoses. 

18.  Dido:  the  beautiful  queen  of  Carthage,  loved  by  yEneas,  but  later 
abandoned  by  him.  Her  story  is  told  in  part  in  Ovid's  Heroides  as  well  as 
in  Book  IV  of  the  y^Ejteid. 

19.  Hero  and  Leander :  the  beautiful  priestess  of  Venus  and  her  gallant 
lover,  the  central  figures  of  a  tragic  love  story  told  in  Latin  by  Ovid  and 
in  English  by  Marlowe  and  Chapman. 


432  THE  ENGLISH   EAMH.IAR  ESSAY 

20.  Cayster:  a  river  abounding  in  swans;  see  Iliad  ii,  459  ff.  (in 
Bryant's  translation,  566  ff.). 

21.  Iris  :  in  (Ireek  mythology  the  messenger  of  the  gods  or  the  person- 
ification of  the  rainbow.  "Iris  dipt  the  woof"  is  in  Paradise  Lost, 
xi,  244. 

22.  Good-morrow  to  my  Valentine,  sings  poor  Ophelia:  see  Hamlet, 

IV,  V,  4<J-5i- 

Christ's  Hospital  Five-and-Thirty  Years  Ago 

Page  207. 

1.  Christ's  Hospital:  a  famous  charity  school  for  boys,  founded  in  1552 
by  Edward  \'I  in  the  buildings  formerly  belonging  to  the  dissolved  order 
of  Grey  Friars. 

2.  eulogy  on  my  old  school :  Recollections  of  C/irisfs  Hospital,  first 
published  in  the  GentleinaiCs  Magazine  (1813)  and  reprinted  with  some 
changes  in  Lamb's  Works  (18 18). 

3.  I  remember  L.  at  school :  in  this  essay  Lamb  is  not  purely  autobio- 
graphical, but  purposely  confuses  Coleridge's  experiences  with  his  own. 

4.  crug  :  still  current  slang  in  Christ's  Hospital. 

5.  piggins  :  small  wooden  pails. 

6.  pitched  leathern  jack:  a  leather  jug  or  bottle,  covered  with  pitch  to 
prevent  leakage. 

7.  banyan  days  :   vegetarian  days. 

8.  double-refined  :   sugar. 

9.  caro  equina  :   horseflesh. 

10.  crags:   necks. 

Page  208. 

1 1 .  griskin  :   the  lean  part  of  a  loin  of  pork. 

1  2.   good  old  relative  :   Lamb's  aunt,  Sarah  Lamb  (d.  i  797). 

13.  the  Tishbite  :   Elijah  (see  i  Kings  xvii). 

1 4.  Calne  in  Wiltshire  :  Lamb  is  here  writing  as  Coleridge,  who  actually 
came  from  Ottery  St.  Mary,  Devonshire. 

Page  209. 

15.  Lions  in  the  Tower:  the  lions,  formerly  one  of  the  sights  of  the 
Tower  of  London,  were  transferred  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  in  1831. 

Page  210. 

16.  H ,  etc.  :  in  Lamb's  Key  H's  name  is  given  as  Hodges;  Nevis 

and  St.  Kitts  are  islands  in  the  West  Indies;  James  Webb  Tobin,  the 
grandson  of  a  rich  sugar  planter,  died  at  Nevis  in  1814. 


NOTES  433 

* 

1 7.  Nero :  a  Roman  emperor  (54-6S)  whose  name  has  become  a  synonym 
for  a  wantonly  cruel  tyrant. 

18.  leads  :  the  roof,  covered  with  sheets  of  lead. 

19.  Caligula's  minioa  :  a  horse  which  the  mad  Roman  emperor,  Caligula 
(3 7-4 1),  fed  on  gilded  oats  and  made  chief  consul. 

20.  waxing  fat,  and  kicking :  see  Deuteronomy  xxxii,  i  5. 

21.  ram's  horn  blast  .  .  .  Jericho :  see  Joshua  vi. 

22.  Smithfield  :   where  there  was  a  horse  and  cattle  market. 

23.  Perry:  John  Perry,  mentioned  in  the  Recollections,  was  steward 
from  I  761  to  I  785. 

Page  21  r. 

24.  grand  paintings  "by  Verrio "  :  the  picture  especially  referred  to 
represents  James  II  receiving  the  members  of  Christ's  Hospital;  \'crrio 
(1634-1707)  was  an  Italian  historical  painter. 

25.  harpies  :  the  creatures,  part  bird  and  part  woman,  w'ho  carried  away 
or  defiled  the  feast  of  the  Trojans;  see  At/iefdm,  225  ff. 

26.  Trojan  in  the  hall  of  Dido  :  ^neas  tried  to  gain  comfort  by  gazing 
on  the  Trojan  scenes  depicted  in  the  temple  being  erected  by  Dido ; 
"  Anintum  pictura  pascit  i/ia/ii  "  —  yEneJd  i,  464. 

27.  goul :  usually  spelled  "  ghoul  "  ;  an  evil  spirit  that  preys  upon  corpses. 

28.  " 'T  was  said 

He  ate  strange  flesh  "  :  see  Aiitoity  and  Cleopatra,  I,  iv,  67-6S. 

29.  the  accursed  thing  :  see  Joshua  vii,  i  3. 

Page  212. 

30.  young  stork  :  it  was  once  believed  that  young  storks  fed  and  tended 
the  parent  birds. 

Page  213. 

31.  auto  da  f  e :  execution  of  heretics  by  the  Inquisition;  the  phrase 
literally  means  "  act  of  faith." 

32.  "  watchet  weeds":  blue  clothes;  the  outer  dress  of  the  Christ's 
I  lospital  boys  is  a  blue  coat  reaching  to  the  heels,  from  which  they  have 
the  name  "  Blue-coat  Boys." 

33.  disfigurements  in  Dante  :  see,  for  example.  Canto  28  of  the  Inferno, 
where  Dante  describes  the  horrible  mutilations  and  disfigurements  by 
which  the  guiltv  are  punished. 

34.  Howard  :  John  Howard  (i  726-1  790),  the  English  prison  reformer. 

Page  214. 

35.  Ultima  Supplicia  :  extreme  punishments. 


434  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

36.  lictor :  the  ofificer  attending  the  highest  Roman  magistrates  and 
executing  sentence  upon  criminals. 

37.  San  Benito  :   the  robe  worn  by  the  victim  of  an  auto  da  fe. 

38.  inhabitants  on  the  two  sides  of  the  Pyrenees :  the  proverbially  gay 
French  and  grave  Spaniards. 

Pa(;e  215. 

39.  "like  a  dancer"  :  see  Antony  and  Cleopatra^  III,  xi,  35-36. 

40.  "insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome"  :  from  Ben  Jonson's  (1573?- 
1637)  To  tJic  Memory  of  My  Bclo7'cd,  Master  Mllliani  Shakespeare,  1.  39. 

41.  Peter  Wilkins,  etc.  :  the  first  two  are  stories  of  travel  and  marvelous 
experiences;  the  last,  the  story  of  the  rise  of  a  Blue-coat  boy  through  a 
rich  marriage. 

42.  Rousseau  and  John  Locke:  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  (171  2-1 778)  in 
Kinile,  and  John  Locke  (163 2-1  704)  in  Some  T/ioi/o/its  eoneernlno;  Ediiea- 
tion,  advocated  educational  methods  tliat  should  force  the  child  less  and 
take  more  account  of  his  natural  inclinations. 

43.  Phaedrus  :  a  writer  of  Latin  fables  in  verse  (first  century  a.d.). 

Page  216. 

44.  Helots  to  his  young  Spartans :  Spartan  parents  exhibited  to  their 
sons  drunken  serfs  (Helots)  as  deterrent  examples. 

45.  Xenophon  :  (cir.  430-after  357  i'..c.),  the  Greek  essayist  and  historian, 
author  of  the  Anabasis. 

46.  Plato :  (cir.  429-347  R.C),  the  Greek  philosopher,  disciple  of 
Socrates   and    teacher   of    Aristotle. 

47.  the  Samite :  Pythagoras  of  Samos  (sixth  century  r..c.),  whose  pupils 
were  not  to  speak  of  his  teachings  until  after  they  had  listened  for  five  years. 

48.  Goshen  :  the  home  of  the  Israelites  in  Egypt.  It  was  exempted  from 
the  plague  of  flies ;  see  Genesis  xlvii  and  Exodus  viii,  22. 

.     49.  Gideon's    miracle:    see   Judges    vi,    37-38.     Lamb's    reference    to 
Cowley  in  the  note  is  to  stanza  7  of  the  latter's   Complaint. 

50.  "playing  holiday  "  :  see  /  Henry  IJ\  I,  ii,  227. 

51.  Ululantes  :  howling  sufferers.  —  Tartarus:  the  infernal  regions  ;  see 
/Eneid  vi,  548  ff. 

52.  scrannel  pipes : 

Their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw. 

Milton,  Lycidas,  123-124 

53.  Garrick  :  David  Garrick  (i  71  7-1  779),  probably  the  greatest  English 
actor-manager,  whose  death  "  eclipsed  the  gayety  of  nations." 


NOTES  435 

Pag?:  217. 

54.  Flaccus's  quibble,  etc. :  Horace,  Satires  I,  vii,  34-35  —  a  play  upon 
rex  as  King,  a  personal  name,  and  as  king,  a  monarch.  —  tristis  severitas 
in  vultu :  gloomy  severity  in  his  face  {AncMa  V,  ii,  r6).  —  inspicere  in 
patinas  :  look  into  your  saucepans  [Adelpha-  III,  iii,  74-75).  — vis  :  force. 
The  jests  really  are  so  thin  as  not  to  deserve  extended  commentary. 

55.  comet  expounded  :  the  appearance  of  a  comet  was  formerly  believed 
to  forebode  great  disasters. 

56.  rabidus  furor  :   mad  rage. 

57.  forewarned;  expressly  forbidden. 

Page  21S. 

58.  Coleridge,  in  his  literary  life:  BiograpJiia  Lit o aria,  chap.  i. 

59.  author  of  the  Country  Spectator  :  Thomas  Fanshaw  Middleton  ;  see 
the  next  paragraph  of  the  essay. 

60.  First  Grecian :  the  Grecians  were  the  two  picked  students  who  each 
year  were  given  scholarships  to  Cambridge  on  the  understanding  that  they 
should  enter  the  Church. 

61.  Dr.  T e:   Arthur  William  Trollope,  who  succeeded   Boyer  as 

Upper  Grammar  Master. 

62.  fasces  :  the  bundle  of  rods  bound  about  an  ax  and  borne  before 
Roman  magistrates  as  the  symbol  of  authority. 

63.  Cicero  De  Amicitia:   Cicero's  essay  Oji  Frioidship. 

64.  Th :   Sir   Edward   Thornton,   minister   to   Sweden,    Denmark, 

and  later  to  Portugal. 

Page  219. 

65.  regni  novitas  :  infancy  of  power ;  see  ^^;/6vV/ I,  563.  Middleton  was 
the  first  Bishop  of  Calcutta. 

66.  Jewel:  John  Jewel  (i 522-1 571),  Bishop  of  Salisbury  and  author  of 
Apologia  pro  Ecclesia  Anglica)ia. 

67.  Hooker:  see  note  13  to  page  96. 

68.  poor  S ,  ill-fated  M :  according  to  Lamb's  Key,  Scott,  who 

died  in  a  madhouse,  and  Maunde,  who  was  expelled  from  school. 

69.  Finding  some  of  Edward's  race,  etc. :  Matthew  Prior's  (i  664-1  721) 
Carmen  Saculare  for  i  700,  stanza  8,  has  "  Finding  some  of  Stuart's  race," 
etc.  Lamb  changes  to  Edward,  as  Christ's  Hospital  was  founded  by 
Edward  VI. 

70.  fiery  column  .  .  .  dark  pillar:  an  allusion  to  Exodus  xiii,  21-22. 

71.  Mirandula  :  Giovanni  Pico  della  Mirandola  (i  463-1 494),  a  brilliant 
scholar  and  philosopher  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 


436  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

72.  Jamblichus  .  .  .  Plotinus  :  Ncoplatonic  philosophers  of  the  third 
and  fourth  centuries  a.d. 

73.  Pindar:  (cir.  522-443  B.C.),  the  greatest  Greek  lyric  poet. 

74.  C.  V.  Le  G :  Charles  Valentine  Le  Grice  in  Lamb's  Key. 

75.  words  of  old  Fuller  :  an  adaptation  of  the  famous  passage  in  Fuller's 
W'oitJiics  concerning  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson. 

Page  220. 

76.  Nireus  formosus  :  handsome  Nireus,  the  handsomest  of  the  Greeks 
in  the  war  against  Troy;   sec  Iliad  \\,  673. 

77.  junior  Le  G :  Samuel  Le  Grice,  who  died  in  the  West  Indies. 

78.  F :   according  to  the  Key.,  "[Joseph]  Favell ;   left  Cambridge, 

ashamed  of  his  father,  who  was  a  house-painter  there."    A  fuller  account 
of  him  is  given  as  W in  "  Poor  Relations,"  pp.  266-268. 

79.  Fr :   Frederick  William  Franklin,  master  of  the  Hertford  branch 

of  Christ's  from  1801  to  1827. 

80.  T :     Marmaduke    Thompson,    to    whom    Lamb    dedicated    his 

Rosaiiiuiid  Gray. 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 

1.  Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites  :  see  Acts  ii,  9. 

Page  221. 

2.  "He  shall  serve  his  brethren  "  :  see  Genesis  ix,  25. 

3.  one  of  this  cast,  lean  and  suspicious  :  probably  an  allusion  to  Caesar's 
characterization  of  Cassius ;   s&c  Julius  Cccsar,  I,  ii,  I92ff. 

4.  Alcibiades  :  the  celebrated  Athenian  general  and  politician,  haughty 
and  extravagant :  Lamb  probably  had  in  mind  the  figure  in  Tiuioit  of  Athens. 

5.  Falstaff :   %<ic.  Ileiiiy  JV.,  passim. 

6.  Sir  Richard  Steele:  Sir  Richard  Steele  (i 672-1 729),  the  essayist 
and  dramatist,  an  equally  reckless  borrower  and  generous  spender. 

7.  Brinsley :  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  (i  751-1816),  the  dramatist, 
lived  notoriously  beyond  his  means. 

8.  no  more  thought  than  lilies  :  see  Matthew  vi,  28-29. 

9.  meum  and  tuum  :   mine  and  yours. 

I  o.  simplification  of  language  (beyond  Tooke) :  as  proposed  by  John 
Home  Tooke  (i  736-1 81 2),  an  English  politician  and  philologist,  in  his 
Diversions  of  Ptirley. 

11.  "  calleth  all  the  world  up  to  be  taxed"  :  adapted  from  Luke  ii,  i; 
"  there  went  out  a  decree  .   .   .  that  all  the  world  should  be  taxed.'' 

12.  obolary  :   impoverished  ;  an  obolus  was  a  very  small  silver  coin. 


NOTES  437 

13.  Candlemas  .  .  .  Feast  of  Holy  Michael:  Candlemas  (February  2) 
is  a  Scotch  and  Michaelmas  (September  29)  an  English  quarter-day,  on 
which  payments,  particularly  of  rent,  are  due. 

14.  lane  tormentum  :  a  gentle  stimulus;  see  Horace  Odes  III,  xxi,  13. 

15.  cloak  ...  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended  :  in  one  of  the  fables 
of  y^isop. 

16.  true  Propontic :  probably  an  allusion  to  OllicUo,  III,  iii,  453-456. 

Page  222. 

17.  the  reversion  promised  :  "  He  that  hath  pity  upon  the  poor  lendeth 
unto  the  Lord ;  and  that  which  he  hath  given  will  he  pay  him  again."  — 
Proverbs  xix,  i  7. 

18.  penalties  of  Lazarus  and  of  Dives  :  see  Luke  xvi,  19-26. 

19.  Ralph  Bigod  :  really  John  Fenwick,  a  friend  of  Lamb's  of  whom 
little  is  known.    He  is  again  mentioned  in  "  Chimney-Sweepers." 

20.  To  slacken  virtue,  etc.  :   Paradise  /\t-^,u'ju'd,  ii,  455-456. 

21 .  like  some  Alexander  ..."  borrowing  and  to  borrow  "  :  an  alteration 
of  Revelations  vi,  2  —  "  conquering  and  to  conquer  "  —  and  an  application 
to  Alexander  the  Great,  who  is  said  to  have  wept  because  he  had  no  more 
worlds  to  conquer. 

22.  periegesis  :  properly  a  description  of  a  place  or  region ;  here  used 
in  the  sense  of  a  journey  about,  a  tour. 

Page  223. 

23.  "stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd"  :  see  Milton's  Counts,  152. 

24.  Hagar's  offspring  :  see  Genesis  xxi,  9-21. 

25.  cana  fides  :  hoary  honor;  see  ^-/i/ze/d  i,  292. 

26.  mumping  visnomy  :  sullen  countenance. 

Page  224. 

27.  Comberbatch :  Coleridge,  who  had  once  enlisted  in  the  dragoons 
under  the  name  Silas  Tomkyn  Comberbach. 

28.  Switzer-like :  enormous ;  from  the  gigantic  Swiss  Guards  formerly 
in  the  French  service. 

29.  Guildhall  giants :  the  colossal  wooden  figures  known  as  "  Gog  and 
Magog  "  in  the  council  hall  of  the  City  of  London. 

30.  Bonaventura  :  Saint  Bonaventura  (1221-1  274),  an  Italian  scholastic 
philosopher. 

31.  Bellarmine :  Roberto  Bellarmino  (i  542-1621),  an  Italian  cardinal 
and  Jesuit  theologian  and  controversialist. 

32.  Holy  Thomas:  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas  (cir.  1 225-1  274),  an  Italian 
theologian  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  scholastic  philosophers. 


43^  THE  ENGLISH   EAMILIAR  ESSAY 

33.  Ascapart :  the  giant  overcome  by  Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton,  the 
hero  of  romance. 

34.  Brown  on  Urn  Burial:  Sir  Thomas  Browne  (1605-1682).  His  best- 
known  works  are  Religio  Medici  and  HydriotapJiia,  or  Urn-Burial.  He 
is  famed  for  freshness  and  ingenuity  of  mind  and  for  stately  eloquence 
of  style.    See  the  motto  and  first  paragraph  of  "  Imperfect  Sympathies." 

35.  Dodsley's  dramas  :  Robert  Dodsley's  Select  Collection  of  Old  Plays 
(1744).  It  first  made  generally  accessible  many  plays  of  the  Elizabethan 
period. 

36.  Vittoria  Corombona:  the  central  figure  of  The  White  Devil,  a  tragedy 
by  John  Webster  (1580.?-! 625  .?). 

37.  Priam's  refuse  sons :  nine  of  Priam's  fifty  sons  remained  after 
Achilles  had  slain   Hector.    See  Iliad  xxiv. 

Page  225. 

38.  Anatomy  of  Melancholy:  by  Robert  Burton  (i  577-1640).  It  is  an 
infinitely  learned  treatise  on  (i)  the  causes  and  symptoms  of  melancholy, 
(2)  its  cure,  and  (3)  on  erotic  and  religious  melancholy.  It  is  one  of  the 
curiosities  of  English  literature  and  a  great  mine  of  quotations. 

39.  Complete  Angler  :  by  Izaak  Walton  (i  593-1 683).  It  consists  largely 
of  dialogues  between  Piscator  (Angler),  Venator  (Hunter),  and  Auceps 
(Falconer),  in  which  the  superior  charms  of  angling  are  made  clear.  The 
work  is  interspersed  with  charming  lyrics.  To  the  fifth  edition  Charles 
Cotton  (1630- 1 687)  added  a  continuation  on  fly-fishing.  It  is  largely  in 
the  form  of  a  dialogue  between  Piscator,  Jr.  and  Viator  (Traveller),  who 
proves  to  be  Venator  of  the  first  part.  A  favorite  haunt  of  Piscator  is 
Trout  Hall,  "an  honest  ale-house." 

40.  John  Buncle  :  The  Life  of  f oh  it  B  uncle,  Es<].  by  Thomas  Amory 
(1691  .''-1788),  an  eccentric  writer.    John  Buncle  is  married  seven  times. 

41.  deodands :  a  deodand  is  in  legal  terminology  a  personal  article 
which,  having  caused  the  death  of  someone,  is  sold,  and  the  proceeds  of 
which  are  distributed  in  charity,  that  is,  given  to  God. 

42.  K.:  James  Kenney(i  780-1849),  a  playwright,  then  living  at  Versailles. 

43.  thrice  noble  Margaret  Newcastle :  besides  the  Letters,  Margaret 
(1624.'*- 1 674),  wife  of  the  first  Duke  of  Newcasde,  wrote  The  Life  of  the 
Thrice  Noble,  High,  and  Puissant  Prince,  Will  lain  Cavendish,  Duke, 
Marquis,  and  Earl  of  Newcastle.  Both  she  and  her  husband  were  dis- 
tinguished for  their  almost  fantastic  devotion  to  each  other. 

44.  Unworthy  land,  etc. :  these  lines  were  probably  invented  by  Lamb, 
though  the  phrase  "  thy  sex's  wonder "  occurs  in  Cyril  Tourneur's  (cir. 
1 575-1 626)  The  Atheisfs  Tragedy,  which  Lamb  knew  well. 


NOTES  439 

I'age  226. 

45.  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook:  (1554-1628),  the  friend  and  biographer 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  the  author  of  many  poems  and  some  closet 
tragedies. 

46.  Zimmerman  on  Solitude  :  by  Johann  Georg  von  Zimmermann  (i  72S- 
I  795),  a  Swiss  philosophical  writer. 

Imperfect  Sympathies 

1.  Motto  :  from  Religio  Medici^  Pt.  II,  sect,  i ;  see  note  34  to  paga  224. 

2.  Standing  on  earth,  etc. : 

Standing  on  earth,  not  rapt  above  the  pole. 

Paradiie  Lost,  vii,  23 

Page  227. 

3.  Haywood's  Hierarchie  of  Angels:  the  passage  is  from  Book  I\', 
Tlie  Dominations.  Thomas  Heywood  (died  cir.  1 650)  is  best  known  as 
a  dramatist,   though  he  was  also  a  poet  and  translator. 

Page  228. 

4.  Minerva  ...  in  panoply  :  Minerv-a,  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  sprang 
fully  armed  from  the  head  of  Jupiter. 

5.  true  touch :  a  reference  to  the  touchstone,  by  which  the  purity  of 
gold  was  tested. 

Page  229. 

6.  John  Buncle :  see  note  40  to  page  225. 

7.  print  .  .  .  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci :  the  picture  referred  to  is  the 
Virgin  of  the  Rocks.  Leonardo  da  \'inci  (i  452-1  519)  was  a  famous  Italian 
artist  and  scientist  —  the  painter  of  the  Mona  Lisa. 

Page  230. 

S.  Thomson  .  .  .  Smollett  .  .  .  Rory  .  .  .  Hume's  History :  James  Thom- 
son, the  poet  of  llie  Seasons,  and  Tobias  Smollett,  the  novelist,  were  both 
Scotchmen.  The  delineation  of  Rory  is  in  Roderick  Random,  chap.  xiii. 
Smollett  wrote  a  continuation  of  the  History  of  England  by  David  Hume, 
also  a  Scotchman. 

Page  231. 

9.  Stonehenge :  a  celebrated  English  prehistoric  monument  formed  of 
gigantic  stones  set  up  on  Salisbury  Plain. 

10.  Hugh  of  Lincoln:  a  Lincoln  child  who,  according  to  tradition,  was 
the  victim  of  a  ritual  murder  by  the  Jews.  See  Chaucer's  Prioress's  Tale 
for  a  similar  story. 


440  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

1  1 .   congeeing  :  bowing. 

I  2.  keck  :  retch,  suffer  vomiting  qualms. 

13.  B :    John    Braham    (i  774?-! 856),    a   great   tenor,    abandoned 

Judaism  for  Christianity. 

Page  232. 

14.  Kemble:  John  PhiHp  Kemble  (i  757-1823),  the  tragedian,  brother 
of  Charles  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons. 

1 5.  Jael :  the  slayer  of  Sisera,  the  enemy  of'Israel,  who  had  taken  refuge 
in  hes  tent;  see  Judges  iv,  17-22. 

16.  '"  to  live  with  them  "  :  see  Othello,  I,  iii,  249. 

17.  salads  .  .  .  Evelyn  ...  for  the  angel:  John  Evelyn  (i 620-1  706), 
best  known  foi;  his  Diary.  The  reference  here  is  to  his  Acetaria :  a 
Discourse  of  Sallcfs. 

1 8.  To  sit  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse :  see  Paradise  Regained, 
ii,  278. 

Page  233. 

19.  a  more  sacred  example:  an  allusion,  probably,  to  the  practice  of 
Jesus  when  Jewish  casuists  souglit  to  entrap  him. 

Page  234. 

20.  Penn  :   William  Penn  (1644-1  7  iS),  '^'^^  founder  of  Pennsylvania. 

Dream-Children  ;  a  Reverie 

This  essay  was  probably  begun  very  soon  after  the  death  of  Lamb's 
brother  John  on  October  26,  1821 — an  event  which  in  large  measure 
occasioned  the  paper  and  colored  its  mood. 

Page  235. 

1 .  great-grandmother  Field  :  Lamb's  grandmother,  Mary  Field,  v/ho  died 
of  cancer  in  1 792,  had  been  for  more  than  fifty  years  housekeeper  at 
Blakesware,  a  countryseat,  not  in  Norfolk  but  in  Hertfordshire.  It  is, 
of  course,  the  same  place  as  the  subject  of  the  essay  "  Blakesmoor,  in 
H shire." 

Page  238. 

2.  seven  long  years  ...  I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n :  according  to 

the  Key  the  name  Alice  W n  was  "  feigned  "  ;  in  all  probability  the 

seven  years  of  courtship  was  also  —  in  duration,  at  least  —  a  fiction. 
Apparently,  as  a  youth.  Lamb  became  tenderly  attached  to  a  young  Hert- 
fordshire girl,  Ann  Simmons,  ^  the  Anna  of  his  early  sonnets  and  the 
Alice  W— n  of  the  Elia  essays,  —  but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  age  of 


NOTES  441 

twenty-one  his  passion  for  her  had  died.  About  the  memory  of  her,  how- 
ever, Lamb  continued  to  gather  sentimental  longings  and  fond  imaginings. 
Ann  Simmons  married  a  Mr.  Bartrum,  a  pawnbroker  of  London. 

Page  239. 

3.  Lethe:  see  JEneid  \\,  748-751,  which  tells  how  spirits,  after  a  long 
period  of  probation,  drink  of  Lethe,  that  they  may  again  be  willing  to 
return  to  mortal  bodies. 

The  Praise  of  Chimney-Sweepers 

1 .  nigritude  :  blackness. 

Page  240. 

2.  fauces  Averni :  jaws  of  hell;  see  j'Eneid  V\,  201. 

3.  stage  direction  in  Macbeth  :  MachctJi^  IV,  i. 

4.  kibed  :  chapped,  cracked  with  cold. 

5.  tester :  a  sixpence. 

Page  241. 

6.  fuliginous  concretions  :  deposits  of  soot. 

Page  242. 

7.  Hogarth  :  William  Hogarth  (i  697-1  764),  a  celebrated  English  painter 
and  engraver.  His  subjects  are  usually  some  phase  of  "  town  "  life,  and 
his  treatment  is  comic  and  satiric. 

Page  243. 

8.  "air"  them  :   probably  an  allusion  to  Cyinbeline,  H,  iv,  96. 

9.  A  sable  cloud,  etc.  :  see  Milton's  Coiiius,  223-224. 

10.  Rachels  mourning  for  their  children:  see  Jeremiah  xxxi,  15. 

1 1 .  recovery  of  the  young  Montagu  :  Edward  Wordey  Montagu,  the  son 
of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  in  one  of  his  runnings  away  from  school 
became  a  chimney  sweep. 

I  2.  defiliations  :  losses  of  children. 

13.  Howards:  Howard  is  the  surname  of  the  dukes  of  Norfolk,  who, 
in  the  English  peerage,  rank  next  after  princes  of  the  royal  blood. 

14.  Venus  lulled  Ascanius  :  see  ^Eiieui  \,  643-722. 

Page  244. 

15.  incunabula  :  the  literal  meaning  is  "  swaddling  clothes." 

16.  Jem  White  :  James  White  (i  775-1 820),  a  schoolfellow  of  Lamb's  at 
Christ's  and  the  author  of  a  Shakespearean  parody  or  imitation,  Original 
Letters,  etc.  of  Sir  JoJtn  Falslaff. 


442  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  245. 

1 7.  fair  of  St.  Bartholomew :  formerly  held  in  Smithfield,  a  locality  in 
London,  on  September  3.    It  existed  from  11 33  to  1S55. 

18.  not  having  on  the  wedding  garment:  see  Matthew  xxii,  1 1-13. 

ig.  Bigod :  see  "Two  Races  of  Men,"  pp.  222-224,  'ind  note  19  to 
page  222. 

20.  Rochester:  John  Wilmot  (i 647-1 680),  second  Earl  of  Rochester, 
a  wild  companion  of  Charles  IL 

21.  universal  host  would  set  up,  etc.:  see  Paradise  Losf,  i,  541-542. 

Page  246. 

22.  Golden  lads  and  lasses  must,  etc. :  see  CyiiibcUiic^  IV,  ii,  262-263. 

Detached  Thoughts  on  Books  and  Reading 

Page  247. 

1.  the  Relapse  :  a  comedy  by  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  (1664-1  726). 

2.  Shaftesbury:  the  third  Earl  of  Shaftesbury  (1671-1713),  the  author 
of  CJuDacicristics.  Lamb,  in  "  The  Genteel  Style  in  Writing,"  speaks  of 
his  "  inflated  finical  rhapsodies." 

3.  Jonathan  Wild  :  The  Life  of  JonatJian  Wild  tlie  Great,  by  Fielding, 
is  an  account  of  the  life  of  a  notorious  thief  and  scoundrel. 

4.  biblia  a-biblia  :   Greek  for  the  preceding  "  books  which  are  no  books." 

5.  Hume  .  .  .  Jenyns  :  David  Hume  (1711-1776),  essayist,  skeptical 
philosopher,  and  historian  of  England;  Edward  Gibbon  (1737-1794),  his- 
torian of  Rome ;  William  Robertson  (i  721-1  793),  historian  ;  James  Beattie 
(1735-1803),  essayist  and  poet  of  TJie  Minstrel  \  Soame  Jenyns  (1704- 
I  787),  miscellaneous  writer,  whose  best-known  work  is  A  Free  Enquiry 
into  the  Nature  and  Origin  of  Evil. 

6.  Flavins  Josephus :  (37-cir.  95)  author  oi  fewisli  Antiquities  and 
The  History  of  the  fezvish  Ji  \ir. 

7.  Paley's  Moral  Philosophy  :  by  William  Paley(i  743-1805),  an  English 
theologian  and  philosopher ;  it  was  for  a  long  time  the  standard  work  on 
the  subject  in  English. 

Page  248. 

8.  Population  Essay  :  Thomas  Robert  Malthus  (1  766-1 834)  promulgated 
the  "  Malthusian  Doctrine  "  in  his  Efsay  on  the  Principle  of  Population 
(1  798) ;   this  publication  called  forth  a  number  of  "  population  essays." 

9.  Steele  .  .  .  Farquhar  .  .  .  Adam  Smith:  Sir  Richard  Steele  (1672- 
1729),  comic  dramatist  and  originator  of  the  Tatler\  George  Farquhar 
(1 678-1 707),  a  writer  of  clever  though  frequently  coarse  comedies;  Adam 


NOTES  443 

Smith  (1 723-1 790),  the  political  economist.  His  Inquiry  into  the  Nature 
and  Causes  0/  the  Wealth  of  Nations  (1776)  practically  founded  the 
modern  science  of  political  economy. 

ID.  Paracelsus  .  .  .  Lully :  Philippus  Aureolus  Paracelsus  (i 493-1  541) 
was  a  celebrated  Swiss-German  physician  and  alchemist ;  Raymond  Lully 
(cir.  1 235-1 3 1  5)  was  a  Spanish  alchemist  and  scholastic  philosopher. 

1 1 .  Thomson's  Seasons :  the  poems  The  Seasons  and  The  Castle  of 
Indoletice  by  James  Thomson  (i  700-1 748)  in  both  form  and  matter  largely 
continue  the  tradition  of  Milton  and  of  Spenser  instead  of  observing  the 
dominant  conventions  of  so-called  classicism  in  English  poetry. 

1 2.  Tom  Jones  :  the  greatest  novel  of  Henry  Fielding  (i  707-1  754);  his 
others  zxefoseph  Andj-ews  and  Amelia.  Fielding  heg2i.n  foseph  Andrews 
as  a  parody  on  Richardson's  Pamela,  in  order  to  express  his  disgust  with 
the  latter's  sentimentality  and  specious  morality.  His  own  novels  are  marred 
by  coarse  passages,  but  they  are  unsurpassed  in  the  presentation  of  life  and 
character  and  in  wise  and  genial  humor. 

13.  Vicar  of  Wakefield:  the  delightfully  tender  and  humorous  novel  by 
Oliver  Goldsmith  (i  728-1 774). 

14.  Smollett:  Tobias  George  Smollett  (1721-1771)  wrote  Roderick 
Random,  Perci^rine  Pickle,  Ferdinand,  Count  Fathom,  Sir  Launcelot 
Greaves,  and  Humphrey  Clinker.  These  novels  are,  as  a  whole,  marked 
by  broad  comedy,  coarseness  of  feeling,  and  bustling  action. 

15.  Sterne:  Laurence  Sterne  (171 3-1 768)  was  a  sentimentalist  and 
whimsical  humorist.  His  chief  works  are  the  novels  —  if  they  may  be 
called  such  —  Tristram  Shandy  and  A  Sentimental  fourney  through 
France  and  Italy.    In  addition  he  wrote  the  Sermons  of  Mr.   Yorick. 

Page  249. 

16.  copies  .  .  .  "  eterne  "  :  set  Macbeth,  HI,  ii,  38. 

17.  We  know  not  where,  etc. :  see  Othello,  V,  ii,  12-13. 

18.  Life  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  :  see  note  43  to  page  225. 

19.  Sir  Philip  Sydney:  (i  554-1 586),  poet,  romancer,  and  chivalrous 
gentleman ;  author  of  the  sonnet  sequence  Astrophel  and  Stella,  the 
pastoral  romance  Arcadia,  and  the  critical  essay  the  Defence  of  Poesie. 

20.  Bishop  Taylor :  see  note  3  to  page  175. 

21.  Fuller:  Thomas  Fuller  (i 608-1 661),  divine,  antiquary,  and  volumi- 
nous writer.  His  best-known  work  is  the  History  of  the  Worthies  of 
England,  a  mine  of  antiquarian  and  biographical  material.  Fuller's  style 
made  him  one  of  Lamb's  favorite  authors. 

22.  first  folio  of  Shakspeare  :  the  first  collective  edition  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  published  in  1 623. 


444  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIA.R  ESSAY 

23.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher:  Francis  r>caumont  (i  584-1616)  and  John 
Fletcher  (i  579-1  625)  from  about  1607  to  161 4-1  61 6  lived  in  the  closest 
personal  and  professional  intimacy  and  jointly  produced  a  number  of  plays. 
Fletcher,  particularly  after  Beaumont's  death,  wrote  a  large  number  inde- 
pendently or  in  collaboration  with  other  dramatists ;  in  one  or  two  plays  he 
probably  collaborated  with  Shakespeare  before  the  latter's  retirement.  Most 
of  the  plays  in  which  Fjetcher  had  a  hand  are  loosely  grouped  as  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's.    Both  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  wrote  poetry  other  than  plays. 

24.  Anatomy  of  Melancholy :  see  note  38  to  page  225. 

Page  250. 

25.  Malone :  Edmund  Malone  (1741-1812),  Shakespearean  critic  and 
editor. 

26.  Kit  Marlowe  .  .  .  Cowley:  Christopher  Marlowe  (i 564-1 593), 
poet,  and  the  greatest  of  Shakespeare's  English  predecessors  as  dramatist. 
Michael  Drayton  (1563-163 1),  a  writer  of  English  patriotic  and  love  poems. 
William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  (i 585-1 649),  a  Scotch  poet;  he 
also  published  Au^/cs  of  Ben  Jonson^s  Conversations.  Abraham  Cowley 
(161 8-1 667),   poet  and  essayist. 

27.  Bishop  Andrewes  :  Lancelot  Andrewes  (i  555-1 626),  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester, and  one  of  the  translators  of  the  King  James  version  of  the  Bible. 

Page  251. 

28.  pro  bono  publico :  for  the  general  good. 

29.  Nando's  :  a  London  coffee-house,  near  which  Lamb  once  lived. 

30.  Candide  :  by  (Francois  Marie  Arouet)  Voltaire  (1694-1778).  It  is  a 
romance  satirizing  philosophical  optimism ;  it  is  not  at  all  the  book  of  a 
devout  churchgoer  and  in  passages  is  highly  indecent. 

3  [ .  Cythera  :  a  Grecian  island  sacred  to  Venus. 

Page  252.  v 

32.  Pamela:  Richardson's  Pamela.,  or  Virtue  Rewarded  is  the  story  of 
a  servant  girl  who  resists  her  master's  attacks  upon  her  virtue  and  is  at 
last  rewarded  by  marriage  to  him. 

33.  Lardner:  Nathaniel  Lardner(i  684-1  768),  a  nonconformist  theologian. 

34.  the  five  points  :  the  cardinal  tenets  of  Calvinistic  doctrine  —  Origi- 
nal Sin,  Predestination,  Irresistible  Grace,  Particular  Redemption,  and  the 
Final  Perseverance  of  the  Saints. 

35.  "snatch  a  fearful  joy":  Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771),  Ode  on  a 
Distant  Prospect  of  Eton   Co//e<j;e,  40. 

36.  Martin  B :   Martin  Burney,  a  friend  of  the  Lambs,  to  whom 

Lamb  dedicated  the  prose  part  of  his  Works  in  181 8. 


NOTES  445 

37.  Clarissa  :   Clarissa  Harlowe,  Richardson's  greatest  iifncl. 

38.  A  quaint  poetess  :   Lamb's  sister,  Mary.    The  poem  is  in  Poetry  for 
Children  (1809)  by  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Modern  Gallantry 
Pa(;f,  254. 

1 .  Dorimant :  a  man  of  fashion  in  the  Restoration  comedy,  TJie  Man  of 
Mode,  by  Sir  George  Etherege  (1635  ?-i  691). 

2.  poor  woman  .  .  .  passing  to  her  parish  :  on  her  way  to  the  almshouse. 

I'AGE  255. 

3.  Eld:  old  age. 

4.  Preux  Chevalier :  gallant  knight. 

5.  Sir  Calidore  :   the  hero  of  Book  \T  of  the  Faerie  Queene  and  the 
pattern  of  courtesy. 

6.  Sir   Tristan :   one  of  the  most  famous   heroes  of   the  romances  of 
chivalry;  see,  for  example,   Malory,-  Book  \'ni. 

Old  China 
Page  258. 

1 .  terra  firma  :  solid  earth. 

2.  the  hays  :  an  old  English  dance. 

3.  couchant :   here  used   in  the   heraldic  sense  —  lying  with   the  body 
resting  on  the  legs  and  the  head  raised. 

4.  Cathay :  a  poetical  name  for  China. 

Page  259. 

5.  Hyson  :  a  fragrant  green  tea. 

6.  cousin  .   .   .  Bridget:   Lamb's  sister,   Mary.    In   the  Essays  of  Ella 
Lamb  always  speaks  of  his  sister  as  his  "  cousin  Bridget." 

7.  speciosa  miracula  :  shining  wonders  ;   Horace,  ^-^/'j- /'i^t'//Va  144. 

8.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher :  see  note  23  to  page  249. 

Page  260. 

9.  corbeau  :  dark  green,  almost  black. 

ID.  Lionardo  .  .  .  Lady  Blanch:  on  Leonardo  see  note  7  to  page  229. 
The  Lady  Blanch  is  usually  called  Jlfodesfy  and  Vanity. 

1 1 .  Izaak  Walton  .  .  .  Piscator  .  .  .  Trout  Hall :  see  note  39  to  page  225. 

Page  261. 

12.  Battle  of  Hexham  .  .  .  Surrender  of  Calais:   comedies  by  George 
Colman  the  Younger  (i  762-1836). 

13.  Bannister  .   .   .  Mrs.  Bland:   John  Bannister  (i  760-1 S36),  a  noted 
comedian  ;  Mrs.  Bland  (1  769-1838),  a  popular  actress  and  singer. 


446  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

14.  the  Children  in  the  Wood:  a  "pathetic  afterpiece"  by  Thomas 
Morton  (1764-1838).    In  another  play  he  invented  Mrs.  Grundy. 

15.  Rosalind  :  in  ^-Is  Van  Like  It\  Viola:  in  Twelfth  Alight. 

Page  262. 

16.  "' lusty  brimmers"  .  .  .  Mr.  Cotton:  in  Lamb's  essay  on  "  New  Year's 
Eve "  he  used  the  phrase  "  hearty,  cheerful  Mr.  Cotton,"  and  quoted  a 
poem  by  him,  TJic  New  Vear,  which  contains  the  lines : 

Then  let  us  welcome  the  New  Guest 
With  lusty  brimmers  of  the  best. 

Charles  Cotton  (1 630-1 687)  is  known  as  a  poet,  the  translator  of  Montaigne's 
Essais,  and  the  continuator  of  Walton's  Compleat  Angler. 

Page  263. 

I  7.   Croesus :  the  fabulously  wealthy  King  of  Lydia  in  the  sixth  century  B.C. 

18.   great  Jew  R :  probably  Nathan  Meyer  Rothschild  (i  777-1836), 

the  founder  of  the  English  branch  of  the  famous  banking  family. 

Poor  Relations 

Note  the  conformity  of  the  first  two  paragraphs  of  this  essay  to  the 
pattern  of  the  seventeenth-century  "  characters." 

Page  264. 

1.  Agathocles'  pot:  Agathocles,  who  became  Tyrant  of  Syracuse,  was 
the  son  of  a  humble  potter. 

2.  a  Mordecai  in  your  gate  :  Esther  iii,  2. 

3.  a  Lazarus  at  your  door  :   Luke  xvi,  20. 

4.  a  lion  in  your  path  :    i  Kings  xiii,  24. 

5.  a  frog  in  your  chamber:   Exodus  viii,  3. 

6.  a  fly  in  your  ointment :  Ecclesiastes  x,  i . 

7.  a  mote  in  your  eye  :   Matthew  vii,  3. 

8.  the  one  thing  not  needful :   Luke  x,  42. 

g.  the  hail  in  harvest :  Proverbs  xxvi,  i  ;  the  phrase  there,  however,  is 
"  rain  in  harvest." 

Page  265. 

I  o.  tide  waiter  :  customs  inspector. 

Page  266. 

1 1 .  aliquando  eufflaminandus  erat :  the  Latin  equivalent  of  the  preceding 
phrase,  "  He  may  require  to  be  repressed  sometimes." 

1 2.  Richard  Amlet :  a  character  in  the  comedy  The  Confederacy^  by 
Sir  John  Vanbrugh  (i 664-1 726). 


NOTES  447 

13.  Poor  W :  the  F (Favcl;  of  "Christ's  Hospital";  sec  note 

78  to  page  220. 

Page  267. 

1 4.  servitor's  gown :  a  servitor  is  at  Oxford  a  student  partly  supported 
by  the  college ;  the  corresponding  term  at  Cambridge  is  "  sizar."  It  was 
formerly  the  duty  of  such  students  to  wait  at  table. 

15.  Nessian  venom:  Hercules  was  killed  by  wearing  a  shirt  that  had 
been  dipped  in  the  poisonous  blood  of  the  centaur  Nessus. 

16.  Latimer  ,  .  .  Hooker:  Hugh  Latimer  (1485-1555X  Bishop  of 
Worcester  and  powerful  in  the  English  Reformation,  had  been  a  sizar  at 
Cambridge,  and  Richard  Hooker  (cir.  15 53-1 600),  the  famous  theologian, 
a  servitor  at  Oxford. 

Page  268. 

17.  Artist  Evangelist:  St.  Luke,  according  to  tradition,  was  a  painter 
as  well  as  a  physician. 

18.  like  Satan,  "knew  his  mounted  sign  —  and  fled":  see  Paradise 
Lost,  iv,    1 01 3-1 01  5. 

Page  269. 

19.  at  Lincoln  :  the  Lambs  came  from  Lincolnshire. 

20.  young  Grotiuses :  Hugo  Grotius  (1583-1645),  the  famous  Dutch 
jurist,  wrote  Dc  litre  Belli  et  Pads. 

The  Superannuated  Man 

The  account  of  himself  that  Lamb  gives  in  this  essay  is  substantially  true 
to  fact,  except  that  he  had  actually  been  employed  in  the  East  India  House 
instead  of  by  a  private  firm.  On  March  29,  1825,  after  thirty-three  years 
of  service,  he  was  retired  on  an  annual  pension  of  ^441- 

Page  271. 

1.  Motto:  "  Freedom  has  at  last  looked  upon  me":  somewhat  adapted 
from  Virgil's  Eclogues  i,  28. 

2.  O'Keefe:  John  O'Keefe  (r  747-1 833),  a  prolific  writer  of  light  stage 
pieces. 

3.  Mincing  Lane :  a  London  street,  the  center  of  the  colonial  trade. 

Page  272. 

4.  native  fields  of  Hertfordshire :  Lamb  was  a  Londoner  born  and  bred, 
but  his  mother  was  from  Hertfordshire  and  he  had  frequently  visited  his 
grandmother  in  that  county.    See  "  Mackery  End." 

5.  the  wood  had  entered  into  my  soul :  "  The  iron  entered  into  his  soul." 
—  Psalm  cv,  1 8  (Prayer-book  version). 


44^  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Pace  273. 

6.  L :  the  Lacy,  as  B is  the  Boldero  of  "  the  house  of  Boldero, 

Mertyweather,  Bosanquet,  and  Lacy."    Under  the  disguise  of  a  private  firm 
of  merchants  are  represented  the  directors  of  the  India  House. 

Page  274. 

7.  Esto  perpetua  :  Be  thou  perpetual. 

8.  Old  Bastile :  the  infamous  state  prison  in  Paris,  stormed  by  the 
Revolutionary  mob  on  July  14,   1789. 

9.  like  the  man  —  "'  that 's  born,"  etc.  : 

I  know  no  more  the  way  to  temporal  rule, 

Than  he  that's  born  and  has  his  years  come  to  him 

In  a  rough  desert. 

The  lines  are  from  TIic  Mayor  of  (2itiiil>o>vitg/i,  I,  i,  102-103,  a 
comedy  by  Thomas  Middleton  (1570-1627). 

Page  275. 

10.  passage  ...  in  a  Tragedy  by  Sir  Robert  Howard:  from  T/ic  J'csfnl 
Virgin,  V,  i.  Sir  Robert  Howard  (1626-1698)  was  Uryden's  brother-in- 
law,  and  his  collaborator  in  the  Indian  (2ueen. 

Page  276. 

1 1 .  Ch .   .   .  Do .   .   .  PI :    Chambers,  probably  Dodwell 

(possibly  IJowley),  and  Plumley,  three  of  Lamb's  colleagues  at  the  India 
House. 

12.  a  Gresham  or  a  Whittington  :  Sir  Thomas  Gresham(d.  15  79)  founded 
the  Royal  Exchange.  Sir  Richard  Whittington  (d.  1423),  the  hero  of  popular 
tales,  was  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

13.  Aquinas:  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  (d.  1274),  an  Italian  theologian  and 
scholastic  philosopher,  the  first  printed  edition  of  ^  whose  works  filled 
seventeen  folio  volumes. 

14.  Carthusian:  the  Carthusians  are  a  very  strict  monastic  order,  whose 
principal  monastery  was  until  recently  at  Chartreux,  France. 

Page  277. 

1 5.  Elgin  marbles :  the  finest  existing  collection  of  ancient  Greek 
sculptures.  They  were  brought  by  Lord  Elgin  from  Athens  to  England 
about  1800  and  placed  in  the  British  Museum. 

1 6.  cantle  :  piece,  slice. 

I  7.  Lucretian  pleasure  :  Lucretius  (d.  55  li.c.)  was  a  Roman  philosophical 
poet.  The  reference  here  is  to  the  opening  lines  of  Book  II  of  Dc  Kenun 
Natura  \ 


NOIT.S  449 

Suave,  mari  magno  turl^antibus  acquora  ventis, 
E  terra  magnum  altcrius  spcctare  laborem. 

Bacon,  in  his  essay  "  Of  Truth,"'  roughly  translates :  "  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
stand  upon  the  shore,  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon  the  sea." 

1 8.  carking  :  being  concerned,  anxious. 

Page  278. 

19.  "As  low  as  to  the  fiends  "  :  see  Hamlet,  II,  ii,  519. 

20.  Retired  Leisure  :  see  Milton's  //  Penseroso,  49-50.         , 

21.  cum  dignitate  :  dignified  —  from  the  phrase  oihun  cujii  digiiitate, 
dignified  leisure. 

22.  Opus  operatum  est :   My  work  is  finished.    The  phrase  is  probably 
employed  here  for  the  sake  of  the  pun  on  "  opera." 


JAMES   HENRY  LEIGH   HUNT 

Autumnal  Commencement  of  Fires 
Page  279. 

1.  "the  web  of  our  life,"  etc.  :   see  AWs  Well  iliat  Ends  Well,  IV,  iii, 
83-84. 

2.  Theocritus  :  (third  century  15. c),  the  famous  Greek  idyllic  and  pastoral 
poet. 

3.  Petrarch:    Francesco  Petrarca  (1304-1374),  the  first  great  poet  of 
the  Renais.sance  in  Italy. 

4.  Ariosto  :    Ludovico  Ariosto  (i  474-1  533),  a  great  Italian  poet  of  the 
Renaissance ;  his  chief  work  is  the  Orlando  I-'itrioso. 

5.  Montaigne:  see  Introduction,  pages  xi-xvi. 

6.  Marcus  Aurelius  :   Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus  (i  21-180),  a  celebrated 
Roman  emperor  and  the  author  of  the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

7.  Moliere :  the  stage  name  of  Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin  (1622-1673),  the 
greatest  French  writer  of  comedies. 

8.  Poussin:   Nicolas  Poussin  (i 594-1665),  a  famous  French  landscape 
and  historical  painter. 

9.  Raphael:   Raphael  Sanzio  (1483-1520),  a  great  Italian  painter,  espe- 
cially of  religious  subjects. 

Page  280. 

10.  great  bed  at  Ware:  a  bed  about  twelve  feet  square,  in  an  inn  at 
Ware  in  Hertfordshire;  it  is  referred  to  in  Twelfth  Night,  III,  ii,  51. 

1 1 .  Hounslow  Heath  :  formerly  a  waste  tract  on  the  great  Western  Road 
from  London,  haunted  by  highwaymen. 


450  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

12.  Archbishop  of  Toledo  .  .  .  Marquis  Marialva :  probably  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Granada  and  the  Marquis  de  Marialva  are  meant ;  Gil  Bias 
served  both  of  these  as  secretary;  see  Gil  Bias,  Bk.  VII,  chaps,  ii-xi. 

Page  281. 

13.  Duodenarian :  apparently  coined  by  Hunt,  as  an  epithet  denoting 
small  means,  from  (fi/o  denarii,  twopence. 

14.  Montaigne  "of  that  ilk":  Montaigne,  lord  of  the  estate  of 
Montaigne. 

15.  "And  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour,"  etc.  :  //  Pcnseivso,  85-92. 

Getting  up  on  Cold  Mornings 
Page  282. 

1.  Giulio  Cordara :  Giulio  Cesare  Cordara  (i  704-1  785),  an  Italian  poet 
and  historiographer  of  the  Jesuits. 

Page  283. 

2.  decumbency  :  lying  down,  as  "  incumbency  "  is  etymologically  lying  in  ; 
see  "  incuml)ent,"  p.  284. 

3.  "  haled  "  out  of  their  "  beds,"  etc.  :   see  Paradise  Lost,  ii,  596. 

Page  284. 

4.  the  Queen  of  France  .  .  .  that  degenerate  King  :  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine 
(1122.^-1204),  wife  of  Louis  VII  of  France  and  later  of  Henry  II  of 
England.  Louis  VII,  "The  Pious"  (cir.  11 20-1 180),  had  shaved  his 
beard  in  obedience  to  an  archiepiscopal  edict. 

5.  Emperor  Julian:  Julian  the  Apostate,  Roman  emperor,  361-363. 

6.  Cardinal  Bembo :  Pietro  Bembo  (1470-1547),  a  celebrated  Italian 
man  of  letters. 

7.  Michael  Angelo :  Michelagnolo  Buonarroti  (1475-1564),  the  most 
famous  Italian  artist  —  sculptor,  painter,  architect,  and  poet. 

8.  Titian:    Tiziano  Vecelli  (1477  ?-i  576),  the  great  Venetian   painter. 

9.  Fletcher:  John  Fletcher,  lieaumont's  collaborator;  see  note  23  to 
page  249. 

10.  Haroun  al  Raschid :  Caliph  of  Bagdad  (786-809);  a  great  Eastern  sov- 
ereign, known  in  the  West,  however,  chiefly  through  the  Arabian  iVigh/s. 

11.  Bed-ridden  Hassan:  Bedreddin  Hassan,  the  son  of  Noureddin  Ali, 
in  the  Aral>ia)i  A'ij^dits  tale  of  that  name. 

12.  Wortley  Montague :  Edward  Wortley  Montagu  (17 13-1776),  English 
writer  and  traveler,  son  of  the  more  famous  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
(1689-1762),  the  traveler,  letter-writer,  and  poetess  of  "  the  Town." 

13.  "Sweetly  recommends  itself,"  etc. :  Macbeth,  I,  vi,  2-3. 


NOTES  451 

Page  285. 

14.  "Falsely  luxurious!  Will  not  man  awake?":  Thomson,  SitJ/imer, 
67  ;  see  note  i  i  to  page  248. 

I  5.  Holborn :  it  is  not  to-day,  and  was  not  in  Hunt's  time,  the  longest  street 
in  London. 

The  Old  Gentleman 

Page  286. 

1 .  Lady  M.  W.  Montague  :  see  note  1 2  to  page  284. 

2.  Churchill :   Charles  Churchill  (i 731-1764),  writer  of  satirical  verse. 

3.  George  Anne  Bellamy:  (1731  .?-i 788),  an  Irish-English  actress,  the 
illegitimate  daughter  of  Lord  Tyrawley. 

Pagk  287. 

4.  Blair's  Works:  Hugh  Blair  (1718-1S00)  was  a  Scotch  divine  and 
man  of  letters  whose  Sermons  were  once  extremely  popular. 

5.  Junius  :  the  pseudonym  of  the  unknown  author  of  a  series  of  brilliant 
satirical  Letters  published  1 769-1  772. 

6.  American  War  :   the  Revolution. 

7.  Lord  George  Gordon  :  an  English  agitator,  tried  for  treason  in'connec- 
tion  with  the  No-Popery  rioting  in  London  in  i  7S0. 

8.  Hogarth  :  see  note  7  to  page  242. 

9.  Sir  Joshua  :  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (i  723-1  792),  the  celebrated  English 
portrait  painter,  first  president  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  Literary  Club. 

10.  Marquis  of  Granby  :  an  English  general  in  the  .Seven  Years'  War. 

1 1 .  Comte  de  Grasse  .  .  .  Admiral  Rodney  :  the  Comte  de  Grasse  com- 
manded the  French  fleet  that  cooperated  with  Washington  in  the  capture 
of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown  in  1 781.  He  was  defeated  in  the  West  Indies 
in  1 782  by  the  English  under  Admiral  Rodney. 

12.  Dr.  Johnson's  criticism  on  Hanway :  see  Boswell's  Life,  anno  1756 
(Vol.  I,  pp.  313-314  in  Hill's  edition). 

Page  288. 

1 3.  Mr.  Oswald  .  .  .  Mr.  Lampe  :  the  first  is  probably  James  Oswald, 
an  eighteenth-century  musician  and  dancing  master;  the  second  is  John 
Frederick  Lampe  (cir.  i  703-1  751),  a  German  composer  of  songs  and  light 
operas,  resident  in  England  after  about  1725. 

1 4.  Lord  North  .  .  .  Lord  Rockingham :  the  former  was  the  English 
prime  minister  during  the  American  Revolution ;  he  was  succeeded  in 
office  by  Rockingham. 


452  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  289. 

I  5.  Garrick,  Woodward  .  .  .  Clive :  David  Garrick  (i  71  7-1 779),  probably 
the  greatest  English  actor-manager;  Ur.  Johnson  said  of  him  that  "his 
death  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations."  Henry  Woodward  (i  714-1777),  a 
noted  comedian  and  mimic.  Catherine  Clive  (1711-17S5),  an  actress 
especially  famous  in  light  parts. 

1 6.  Vauxhall  .  .  .  Raneiagh  :  both  were  formerly  amusement  gardens 
on  the  Thames  near  London. 

1 7.  Newmarket :  the  site  of  a  famous  English  race  course  where  races 
have  been  run  for  the  last  three  hundred  years. 

Deaths  of  Little  Children 
Page  290. 

1.  a  Grecian  philosopher:  Solon  (cir.  638-cir.  559  B.C.),  the  great 
Athenian  statesman.  For  the  incident  referred  to,  see  chapter  xvi  of  his 
Life  by  Diogenes  Laertius. 

Page  294. 

2.  "of  these  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven"  :  see  Matthew  xix,  14. 

3.  '"  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  "  :  Genesis  ii,  9. 

Shaking  Hands 
Page  296. 

I.  two  really  kind  men,  who  evinced  this  soreness  of  hand  :  the  first  one 
described  is  unidentified,  the  second  was  Hazlitt. 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT 

On  Reading  Old  Books 

Page  297. 

1.  Tales  of  My  Landlord:  several  of  Scott's  novels  were  published  in 
series  under  this  general  title. 

2.  Lady  Morgan  :  (1783  .?-i859)  a  writer  of  lively  Irish  novels. 

3.  Anastasius :   an   Eastern  romance,  on  its  first  publication  in    181 9 
attributed  to  Byron,  but  actually  written  by  Thomas  Hope  (i  770-1 831). 

4.  Delphine :  a  novel  published  in  1802  by  Madame  de  Stael,  the  cele- 
brated French  bluestocking  and  miscellaneous  writer. 

5.  "in  their  newest  gloss  "  :  Macbcili^  I,  vii,  34. 

C.  black-letter :   the  so-called  Gothic  type  used  in  the  earlier  printed 
books;  it  closely  resembled  the  type  used  to-day  in  (jcrman  books. 


NOTES  453 

7.  Andrew  Millar:  Andrew  Millar  (i  707-1  768),  Thomson's  and  Field- 
ing's publisher. 

8.  Thurlow's  State  Papers:  John  Thurloe  (1616-1668)  was  Secretary 
of  State  during  the  Protectorate  of  Cromwell.  His  State  Papers  were 
published  in   1742. 

9.  Sir  William  Temple's  Essays  :  Sir  William  Temple  (1628- 1699)  wag 
an  English  statesman  and  miscellaneous  writer.  See  introduction  to  the 
present  volume,  p.  xxii, 

10.  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller :  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  (i  646-1 723),  a  portrait 
painter,  had  as  patrons  Charles  II,  James  II,  William  III,  and  Queen  Anne. 

Page  298. 

11.  rifaccimentos  :  rifaciiiioito  is  literally  "remaking."  The  term  is 
usually  applied  to  a  literary  work  which  has  been  made  out  of  another 
work. 

Page  299. 

12.  "  for  thoughts  and  for  remembrance":  see  Hamlet^  IV,  v,  175-177. 

13.  Fortunatus's  Wishing  Cap:  Fortunatus,  in  the  widely  current  popular 
tale,  receives  a  magic  cap,  which  will  place  him  wherever  he  wishes  to  be. 

14.  My  father  Shandy  .  .  .  Bruscambille :  see  Sterne's  Tristram  S/iatidy, 
Bk.  Ill,  chap.  XXXV. 

15.  Peregrine  Pickle  :  one  of  the  novels  of  Tobias  Smollett  (see  note  14 
to  page  248).    The  "  Memoirs  of  Lady  Vane  "  are  in  chapter  Ixxxi. 

1 6.  Tom  Jones :  see  note  1 2  to  page  248.  The  Masquerade  is  in 
Bk.  XIII,  chap,  vii ;  Thwackum  and  Square,  Bk.  Ill,  chap,  iii ;  Molly 
Seagrim,  Bk.  IV,  chap,  viii ;  Sophia  and  her  muff,  Bk.  V,  chap,  iv ;  her  aunt's 
lecture,  Bk.  VII,  chap.  iii. 

17.  "the  puppets  dallying"  :  Hamlet,  III,  ii,  257. 

18.  let  this  hump,  like  Christian's  burthen,  drop  :  in  Pilgrim's  Progress 
Christian's  burden  fell  off  when  he  reached  the  cross. 

Page  300. 

19.  "  ignorance  was  bliss  "  :  Thomas  Gray  (i  71 6-1 771),  Ode  on  a  Dis- 
tant Prospect  of  Eton  College,  99- 1 00  : 

—  where  ignorance  is  bliss 
'T  is  folly  to  be  wise. 

20.  raree-show :  a  peep  show. 

2 1 .  Ballantyne  press  .  .  .  Minerva  press  :  the  former  was  the  Edinburgh 
printing  house  with  which  Scott  was  associated,  the  latter  a  London  center 
for  the  issuance  of  cheap,  popular  fiction.  * 


454  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

22.  the  time  "  when  I  was  in  my  father's  house,  and  my  path  ran  down 
with  butter  and  honey  "  :  the  source  of  this  quotation  has  not  been  deter- 
mined. It  may  he  a  confused  recollection  of  Job  xx,  17,  "streams  of 
honey  and  butter,"  with  the  frequently  occurring  Biblical  phrase  "  my 
father's  house." 

23.  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest :  Mrs.  Ann  Radcliffe  (1764- 
1823)  was  the  most  important  of  the  late  eighteenth-  and  early  nineteenth- 
century  novelists  of  mystery  and  terror.  The  Ro)iiance  of  ilie  Forest  was 
published  in  i  791. 

24.  "  sweet  in  the  mouth"  ..."  bitter  in  the  belly  "  :  see  Revelations 
X,  9. 

25.  "  gay  creatures"  ..."  of  the  element  "  .  .  .  "  living  in  the  clouds"  : 
see  Milton's  Coini/s,  299-301. 

Page  301. 

26.  Tom  Jones  discovers  Square  :   To7n  Jones,  Bk.  V,  chap.  v. 

27.  Parson  Adams  .  .  .  Mrs.  Slip-slop :  Joseph  Andreu's,  Bk.  IV, 
chap.  xiv. 

28.  Major  Bath,  etc.  :  the  names  are  those  of  famous  characters  of 
fiction:  Major  Bath  in  Fielding's  A7nelia\  Commodore  Trunnion  in 
Smollett's  Peregrine  Fickle ;  Trim  and  Uncle  Toby  in  Sterne's  Tristram 
SJiandy  ;  Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  and  Dapple  in  Cervantes'  Don  Quixote,  the 
last  name  being  that  of  Sancho's  ass ;  Gil  Bias,  Daine  Lorenza  Sephora, 
Laura,  and  Lucretia  in  Le  Sage's  Gil  Bias  de  Santillane. 

29.  0  Memory  !  etc.  :  these  lines  have  not  been  identified  as  a  quota- 
tion ;   they  are  perhaps  by  Hazlitt  himself. 

30.  Chubb's  Tracts  :  Thomas  Chubb  (1679-1  747)  was  a  tallow  chandler, 
who  wrote  much  on  the  deistic  controversy. 

Page  302. 

31.  "  fate,  free-will,  etc.  "  .  .  .  "  found  no  end  "  :  see  Paradise  Lost,  ii, 
558-561. 

32.  "  Would  I  had  never  seen  Wittenberg,  never  read  book  "  :  Faust  us 
xvi,  20-21,  in  I5ullen's  edition;  11.  1376-1377  in  Tucker  Brooke's  edition. 

33.  Hartley,  etc.:  David  Hartley  (1705-1757),  David  Hume  (1711- 
1776),  Bishop  George  Berkeley  (i 685-1  753),  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  and 
Thomas  Hobbes  (i  588-1 679)  were  all  philosophical  writers.  Hazlitt  was 
at  one  time  deeply  interested  in  metaphysics. 

34.  New  Eloise:  Rousseau's  sentimental  romance.  On  this  and  Rous- 
seau's other  works  see  note  29  to  page  3 1 6. 

35.  I  have  spoken  elsewhere  :  in  the  Pound  Table  essay,  "  On  the 
Character  of  Rousseau." 


NOTES  455 

36.  "scattered  like  stray-gifts  o'er  the  earth":  probably  an  inexact 
recollection  of  lines  27-2S  in  Wordsworth's  Stray  Pleasures: 

Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find. 

Page  303. 

37.  Sir  Fopling  Flutter:  a  character  in  Etherege's  The  Man  of  Mode. 
See  also  note  34  to  page  3 1 8. 

38.  leurre  de  dupe  :  decoy  for  a  simpleton  ;  the  phrase  occurs  in  liook  I\' 
of  Rousseau's  Co/i/ess/o/is. 

39.  "a  load  to  sink  a  navy"  :  see  Heitry  17//,  III,  ii,  383. 

40.  a  friend,  who  had  some  lottery  puffs,  etc. :  Charles  Lamb. 

Page  304. 

4 1 .  Marcian  Colonna  is  a  dainty  book :  Marcia?i  Colonna  is  a  verse 
tale  by  Bryan  Waller  Procter  —  "Barry  Cornwall"  —  (i 787-1874).  The 
quotation  is  from  a  sonnet  addressed  to  Procter  by  Lamb. 

42.  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes:  John  Keats  (1795-1821).  The  E7>e  of 
St.  Agnes  is  a  richly  colored  verse  romance.  The  bits  Hazlitt  quotes 
here  are  both  from  stanza  24 : 

The  tiger  moth's  deep  damasked  wings; 
and 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

43.  "  come  like  shadows  —  so  depart  "  :  Maibeth,  IV,  i,  1 1 1. 

44.  "Words,  words,  words":  I/amlet,  II,  ii,  194. 

45.  great  preacher  in  the  Caledonian  Chapel:    Edward  Irving  (1792- 

1834). 

46.  "as  the  hart  that  panteth,"  etc. :  see  Psalm  xlii,  i. 

47.  Goethe's  Sorrows  of  Werter  and  Schiller's  Robbers:  the  first  is  a 
sentimental  novel,  published  i  774  ;  the  second  a  "  Storm  and  Stress"  play 
published  1  781,  according  to  Hazlitt  the  first  play  he  read. 

48.  "  giving  my  stock  of  more,"  etc. :  see  As  l^ou  Like  //,  II,  i,  48-49. 

Page  305. 

49.  Authors  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  :  in  the  spring  of  1 798  Hazlitt  visited 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  at  Nether-Stowey  and  Alfoxden.  His  essay 
"  On  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  "  presents  an  extremely  interesting 
account  of  this  visit. 

50.  Valentine,  Tattle  .  .  .  Miss  Prue  :  characters  in  Lo7>e  for  Lotc,  by 
William  Congreve  (1670-1729),  the  wittiest  and  cleverest  of  the  Restora- 
tion comic  dramatists. 

51.  "  know  my  cue  without  a  prompter  "  :  see  Othello,  I,  ii,  83-84. 


456  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

52.  Intus  et  in  cute:  "  Intimately,  and  under  the  skin";  from  Persius, 
Satires  III,  30. 

53.  Sir  Humphry  Davy:  Sir  Humphry  Davy  (i 778-1829),  famous 
chemist  and  man  of  letters. 

Page  306. 

54.  Richardson  .  .  .  Clarissa  .  .  .  Clementina  .  .  .  Pamela :  Samuel 
Richardson  (16S9-1761)  was  the  first  of  the  great  English  novelists.  His 
novels  are  Pamela  (i  740-1 741),  Clarissa  Harlowe  (i  747-1  748),  and  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  (1753-1754)-  They  are  tediously  elaborated,  but  excel 
in  analysis  of  feminine  emotion  and  of  motives  of  conduct.  Pamela  and 
Clarissa  are  the  heroines  of  the  two  earlier  novels ;  Clementina  is  the 
beautiful  Italian  who  went  mad  from  love  of  the  impeccable  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  ;   Lovelace,  named  in  the  footnote,  was  the  betrayer  of  Clarissa. 

55.  "  with  every  trick  and  line,"  etc. :  see  AlTs  Well  That  Ends  Jl'ell, 
I,  i,  104-107. 

56.  Mackenzie's  Julia  de  Roubign6  .  .  .  Man  of  Feeling  :  Henry  Mac- 
kenzie (1745-1831)  was  an  essayist  and  sentimental  novelist.  His  novels 
are  The  Man  of  Feeli/ii^  {lyji),  The  iMan  of  ike  Jl'oiid  {\jt2)\  ^'^'^dfnlia 
de  Roubigne  {IJJJ). 

^•j.  "that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken":  Tristram 
Shandy,  Bk.  VI,  chap.  x. 

58.  Boccaccio  .  .  .  story  of  the  Hawk :  the  Decameron,  fifth  day,  ninth 
story. 

59.  Farquhar:  George  Farquhar  (1678-1707),  a  comic  dramatist  of  the 
Restoration  school. 

Page  307. 

60.  "at  one  proud  swoop":  cf.  "at  one  fell  swoop"  —  Macbeth,  IV, 
iii,  2ig. 

61.  "  with  all  its  giddy  raptures  "  :  cf.  "  all  its  dizzy  raptures  " — Words- 
worth, Tin  tern  Abbey,  85. 

62.  "embalmed  with  odours  "  :  Paradise  Lost,  ii,  843. 

63.  His  form  had  not  yet  lost,  etc.  :  Paradise  Lost,  i,  591-594. 

64.  "  falls  flat  upon  the  grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  worshippers  " : 
see  Paj-adise  Lost,  i,  460-461. 

65.  Junius's  :  see  note  5  to  page  287. 

Page  308. 

66.  "he,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cot,"  etc. :  see  Coriolanns,  V,  vi,  1 1 5-1 1 6. 

67.  Wordsworth  ,  .  .  Essay  on  Marriage  :  no  such  essay  by  Wordsworth 
is  known. 


NOTES  457 

Page  309. 

68.  "  worthy  of  all  acceptation  "  :    1  Timothy  i,  15. 

69.  Lord  Clarendon's  History  of  the  Grand  Rebellion  :  Edward  Hyde 
(1 608-1 674),  first  Earl  of  Clarendon,  was  an  English  statesman  who  re- 
mained loyal  to  the  king  in  the  Civil  War,  of  which  he  afterwards  wrote 
the  history  from  the  Royalist  point  of  view. 

70.  Froissart's  Chronicles:  Jean  Froissart  (1337-cir.  1410)  wrote  an 
extremely  picturesque  Chronique  de  France,  d'A/igleterre,  d''Ecosse,  et 
d'Espag/ie,  which  relates  the  events  of  history  in  western  Europe  from 
1325  to  1400.  A  spirited  English  translation  was  made  by  Lord  Berners 
in  I  523-1 525. 

71.  Holinshed  and  Stowe  :  Raphael  Holinshed  (d.  1580.'')  wrote  Chroni- 
cles of  E/ig/a/id,  Scot/and,  and  Ireland,  which  furnished  Shakespeare 
material  for  many  plays.  John  Stowe  (i 525-1605)  wrote  or  edited  several 
chronicles  of  English  history  and  a  Survey  of  London. 

72.  Fuller's  Worthies  :  see  note  21  to  page  249. 

73.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher:  see  note  23  to  page  249. 

74.  Thucydides  :  (471  ?-40l  ?  B.C.),  a  celebrated  Greek  historian. 

75.  Guicciardini ;  Francesco  Guicciardini  (1483-1540J  was  the  author  of 
a  History  of  Italy  from  1494  to  1532. 

'jd.  Don  Quixote  :  the  great  burlesque  romance  of  chivalry,  by  Miguel  de 
Cervantes  Saavedra  (i  547-1616). 

77.  "  another  Yarrow  "  :  see  Wordsworth's  Yarrow  C/nvisited,  stanza  7. 

On  Going  a  Journey 

Page  310. 

1.  The  fields  his  study,  etc.  :  from  T/ie  Fartner's  Boy,  Spring,  32,  by 
Robert  Bloomfield  (i  766-1 823). 

2.  a  friend  in  my  retreat,  etc.  :  from  Retirement,  741-742,  by  William 
Cowper  (173 1 -1 800). 

3.  Contemplation  may  plume  her  feathers,  etc.  :  see  Milton's  Coinus, 
378-380. 

4.  a  Tilbury  :  a  light  two-wheeled  vehicle. 

Page  311. 

5.  "sunken  wrack  and  sumless  treasuries  "  :  Hejiry  V,  I,  ii,  165. 

6.  "Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose":  see  Thomas  Gray's  (1716- 
177 1)  The  Lt  scent  of  Odin,  50. 

7.  "  very  stuff  0'  the  conscience  "  :   Othello,  I,  ii,  2. 

8.  "  Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellowship  "  :  /  Henry  IV,  I,  iii,  208. 


45 S  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILL^R  ESSAY 

9.  Mr.  Cobbett's  :  William  Cobbett  (i  762-1835),  a  political  journalist 
and  essayist. 

10.  "Let  me  have  a  companion  of  my  way,"  says  Sterne,  etc.  :  some- 
what inaccurately  quoted  from  the  eighteenth  of  the  Sen/uvis  of  Mr.  Yorick. 
On  Sterne  see  note  1 5  to  page  248. 

Page  313. 

11.  "  give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue  "  :  Hamlet,  I,  ii,  250. 

12.  Pindaric  ode  :  after  the  manner  of  Pindar  (522-443  li.c),  the  great- 
est Greek  lyric  poet. 

13.  "He  talked  far  above  singing";  see  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
rjiilastcr,  V,  v,  165-166. 

14.  All-Foxden  :  see  note  49  to  page  305. 

15.  "that  fine  madness  in  them  which  our  first  poets  had":  probably 
an  inexact  recollection  of  lines  105-1 10  of  Michael  Drayton's  (1563-1631) 
To  Henry  Reynolds  —  Of  Poets  and  Poesie  : 

Next  Marlowe,  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs, 
Had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things 
That  the  first  poets  had :  his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire,  which  made  his  verses  clear; 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain. 

16.  Here  be  woods  as  green,  etc.  :  Fletcher's  FaitJiful  Shephe?-dess^  I, 
iii,  26  ff. 

17.  Phoebe  :  goddess  of  the  moon  and  sister  of  Phcebus,  god  of  the  sun. 
Latmos  is  a  mountain  range  in  Asia  Minor. 

Page  314. 

18.  "  take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn  "  :  see  /  Henry  IV,  III,  iii,  92-93. 

19.  The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate:   Cowper's  Task,  iv,  39-4°- 

20.  Sancho  .  .  .  once  fixed  upon  cow-heel :  Don  Quixote,  Part  II,  chap, 
lix.    Sancho  Panza  was  the  esquire  and  counterpart  of  Don  Quixote. 

2 1 .  Shandean  contemplation :  the  adjective  is  formed  from  Tristram 
Shandy,  the  title  of  Sterne's  novel,  and  means  digressive,  reflective. 

22.  Procul,  0  procul  este  profani :  "  Away,  away,  ye  unhallowed " : 
^neid  VI,   258. 

Page  315. 

23.  "unhoused  free  condition  is  put  into  circumscription  and  confine"  : 
see  Othello,  I,  ii,  26-27. 

24.  "  lord  of  one's  self,  uncumbered  with  a  name  "  :  Dry  den's  Epistle 
to  John  Driden,  18,  has  "  Lord  of  yourself,  uncumbered  with  a  wife." 


NOTES  459 

25.  association  of  ideas  :  the  psychological  principle  according  to  which 
an  idea  calls  related  ideas  into  consciousness.  The  "  proof  "  Hazlitt  speaks 
of  is  not  known. 

Page  316. 

26.  the  Cartoons  :  the  drawings  of  religious  subjects  by  the  great  Italian 
painter  Raphael  (14S3-1520),  made  to  be  reproduced  in  tapestry.  They 
are  now  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  London. 

27.  Paul  and  Virginia :  a  sentimental  romance  by  Bernardin  de  Saint 
Pierre,  published  1788. 

28.  Madame  D'Arblay's  Camilla  :  Madame  D'Arblay,  or  Frances  Burney 
(1 752-1 840),  an  extremely  popular  realistic  English  novelist,  wrote  Evelina^ 
Cecilia^  and  Camilla,  of  which  the  last  was  the  least  successful. 

29.  New  Eloise :  the  letter  referred  to  is  number  i  7  of  Part  IV.  The 
author,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  (1712-1778),  was  the  great  Swiss-French 
sentimentalist  and  social  philosopher  and  the  most  powerful  personal  force 
in  the  revolutionary  movement  of  the  late  eighteenth  century.  His  most 
important  works  are  La  A'ouvelle  Heloise  {ij6\\  Le  Con t rat  social  (i  762), 
E/nile,  on  de  rEdtication  (1762),  and  Les  Confessions  (i  782-1  788).  La 
Nouvelle  LLeloise  recounts  in  a  series  of  letters  the  love  of  Julie,  a  young 
woman  of  rank,  for  St.  Preux,  a  man  of  low  birth.  Its  interest  lies  largely 
in  its  passages  of  fervid  passion  and  of  landscape  description.  Le  Contrat 
social  is  a  political  work,  whose  theories  formed  the  basis  of  Jacobin  poli- 
tics in  the  French  Revolution.  Upon  Eniile  see  note  36  to  page  224.  Les 
Confessions  is  Rousseau's  autobiography,  largely  concerned  with  sentimental 
affairs  and  remarkably  frank  in  its  presentation  of  them. 

30.  bon  bouche  :  a  titbit,  dainty  morsel. 

31.  "green  upland  swells,"  etc.  .  .  .  "glittered  green  with  sunny 
showers":  see  Coleridge's   Ode  on  tJie  Departing  ]'eaj;  stanza   7. 

32.  Liberty,  Genius,  Love,  Virtue:  this  passage  reflects  the  enthusiasm 
kindled  by  Hazlitt's  just-formed  acquaintance  with  Coleridge  and  by  his 
belief  in  the  triumph  of  the  principles  of  the  French  Revolution. 

Page  317. 

33.  The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not :  Coleridge's  translation 
of  Schiller's  IVallensteiirs  Tod,  V,  i,  68. 

Page  318. 

34.  "  Beyond  Hyde  Park,"  etc. :  from  TJie  Man  of  A  f ode,  V,  ii,  a  comedy 
by  Sir  George  Etherege  (1635?-!  691). 

35.  Stonehenge :  see  note  9  to  page  231. 


46o  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  319. 

36.  "  The  mind  is  its  own  place  "  :     Paradise  Lost,  i,  254. 

37.  With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd  :  Paradise  Lost,  iii,  550. 

38.  the  Bodleian  .  .  .  Blenheim  :  the  former  is  the  university  library  at 
Oxford ;   the  latter,  the  magnificent  house  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough. 

39.  when  I  first  set  my  foot  on  the  laughing  shores  of  France :  in  1 802, 
after  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  Hazlitt  went  to  Paris  to  study  and  copy  the 
masterpieces  of  art  collected  there  by  Napoleon.  At  the  time  Hazlitt's 
enthusiasm  was  about  evenly  divided  between  Napoleon  and  painting. 

Page  320. 

40.  "the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions  of  France"  :  from  a  Soig 
by  William  Roscoe  (i  753-1831). 

41 .  the  Bourbons  :  the  reigning  French  dynasty  from  i  589  to  the  French 
Revolution  and  from  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  to  1 830.  The  name  has 
become  synonymous  for  excessive  political  conservatism  and  repression. 

42.  "  jump  "  :   risk,  take  chances  on  ;  .see  Macbeth,  I,  vii,  4-7. 

43.  Dr.  Johnson  remarked  how  little  foreign  travel,  etc. :  Boswell's  Life, 
atino  1778  (Hill's  edition,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  352). 

44.  Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go :  the  source  of  this  quotation  — 
if  it  is  a  quotation  and  not  by  Hazlitt  himself  —  has  not  been  located. 


On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth 

Page  321. 

1.  Motto:  from  Hydriotapkia,  or  Urn-Burial,  chap,  v;    see  note  34 
to  page  224. 

2.  The  vast,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  us  :  sec  Addison's  Cato, 
V,i,  13- 

3.  "bear  a  charmed  life  "  :  MacbetJi,  V,  viii,  12. 

4.  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail:  see  line  32  of  the  ode 
The  Passions,  by  William  Collins  (i  721-1759). 

Page  322. 

5.  "this  sensible,  warm  motion,"  etc.:  Measitre  for  Measure,  HI,  i, 
1 20-1 21. 

6.  "  wine  of  life  is  drank  up  "  :  see  Macbeth,  II,  iii,  100. 

Page  323. 

7.  "as  in  a  glass,  darkly"  :  sec  i  Corinthians,  xiii,  12. 

8.  the  foolish  fat  scullion,  in  Sterne :    see  Tristram  Shandy,   Bk.  V, 
chap.  vii. 


NOIES  461 

Page  324. 

9.  "the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul":  Pope's  Iiiiilafions  of 
Horace,  Satire  I,  1  2.S. 

10.  "  brave  sublunary  things  "  :  see  note  i  5  to  page  3 1 3. 

1 1 .  Sidon  .  .  .  Tyre  .  .  .  Babylon  .  .  .  Susa  :  Sidon  was  earlier  the  ricliest 
and  most  powerful  Phoenician  city,  as  Tyre  was  later ;  Babylon  and  Susa 
were  once  capitals  of  great  empires.  All  four  are  now  mere  small  towns 
or  only  heaps  of  rubbish. 

1 2.  The  stockdove  plain  amid  the  forest  deep,  etc. :  slightly  adapted  from 
James  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence,  i,  33-34. 

Page  326. 

13.  "the  purple  light  of  love  "  :  Gray's  Progress  of  Poesy,  41. 

14.  Rubens:  Peter  Paul  Rubens  (i  577-1640),  the  great  Flemish  painter, 
particularly  famed  as  a  colorist. 

Page  327. 

15.  "the  Raphael  grace,  the  Guido  air":  cf.  "Match  Raphael's  grace 
with  thy  loved  Guido's  air,"  Pope's  Epistle  to  Mr.  fcri'as,  36.  Raphael 
Santi  (1 483-1 520)  was  the  great  Italian  painter  of  religious  subjects  in 
particular;  Guido  Reni  (i  575-1642)  was  also  an  Italian  painter. 

16.  "  gain  new  vigour  at  our  endless  task  "  :  see  Cowper's  Cliarity,  104. 

1 7.  divinae  particula  aurse  :  particles  of  divine  ether. 

18.  Rembrandt:  Rembrandt  Hermanzoon  Van  Rijn  (i 607-1 669),  the 
greatest  of  the  Dutch  school  of  painters. 

Page  328. 

19.  "beguile  the  slow  and  creeping  hours  of  time"  :  see  As  You  Like 
It,  II,  vii,  1 12. 

Page  329. 

20.  Robbers  .  .  .  Don  Carlos  :  plays  by  Schiller,  the  first  published  i  781, 
the  second  i  787. 

21.  From  the  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent,  etc.:  from  Coleridge's 
sonnet  To  t/ie  AutJior  of  tJie  Robbers,  3-4. 

22.  "  That  time  is  past  with  all  its  giddy  raptures  "  :  see  Wordsworth's 
Tintern  Abbey,  83-85. 

Page  330. 

23.  "  Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries,"  etc.  :  Gray's  Elegy, 
91-92. 

24.  "  all  the  life  of  life  is  flown"  :  see  Burns's  Lament  for  fames.  Earl 
of  Glencairn,  46. 

25.  From  the  last  dregs  of  life,  etc. :  see  Dryden's  Aurengzebe,  IV, 
i,  41-42. 


462  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Page  331. 

26.  "  treason  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing  could  touch  us  farther  " : 
see  MacbctJi,  III,  ii,  24-26. 

27.  "  reverbs  its  own  hoUowness  "  :  adapted  from  Lear,  I,  i,  i  55-1  56. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

The  three  essays  in  this  selection  originally  appeared  as  Nos.  7,  12,  and 
23  of  the  Roundabout  Papers  in  the  Coriihill  Magazine. 

TuNBRiDGE  Toys 
Page  333. 

1 .  hardbake  :  a  kind  of  candy. 

2.  prodigal  little  son:  see  Luke  xv,  11--32. 

Page  334. 

3.  bull's-eyes  :  glass  marbles. 

4.  form :  class. 

Pa(;e  335. 

5.  Eutropius :  (fourth  century  A.D.),  the  author  of  aconcise  history  of  Rome. 

6.  Bartlemytide  :  the  time  of  the  festival  of  St.  Bartholomew,  August  24. 

PA(iK  337. 

7.  Mr.  Sala:  George  Augustus  Sala  (1828-1895),  novelist  and  miscel- 
laneous writer. 

Page  338. 

8.  Tyburn :  the  site  of  the  public  gallows  until  its  transfer  to  Newgate 
Prison  in  1  783. 

9.  stumps  :  the  uprights  forming  the  wicket  in  cricket. 

1  o.  Valancour :  one  of  the  principal  characters  in  Tlie  Mysteries  of 
Udolplio,  a  romance  of  mystery  and  terror,  by  Mrs.  Ann  Radcliffe 
(1 764-1 823). 

1  1 .  Manfroni :  apparently  the  chief  figure  in  the  tale  twice  named  later 
in  this  essay.  The  editors  cannot  make  any  further  identification,  but  the 
story  is  evidently  of  the  same  character  as  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 

I  2.  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  :  the  principal  character  in  a  pseudo-historical 
romance  of  the  same  name  by  Jane  Porter  (1776-1850). 

13.  Corinthian  Tom  .  .  .  Jerry  Hawthorn:  characters  in  the  once  ex- 
tremely popular  Life  in  London,  by  Pierce  Egan  the  elder  (i  772?-!  849). 

1 4.  a  lecture  on  George  II.  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  :  Thackeray's  lectures 
on  The  Four  Georges,  first  delivered  in  America  (i  855-1 856),  were  printed 
in  the  Cornhill m  the  issues  from  July  to  October,  i860. 


NOTES  463 

On  Being  Found  Out 
Page  341. 

1 .  coram  populo :  in  the  presence  of  the  puliHc. 

2.  cried  his  peccavi :  acknowledged  his  fauh ;  peccai'i  is  literally  "  I 
have  sinned." 

3.  Siste  tandem,  carnifex  :  Cease,  pray,  O  executioner ! 

Page  342. 

4.  Jack  Ketch  :  a  famous  English  executioner  (d.  1686).  His  name  was 
applied  to  the  hangman  in  Putich  and  Judy,  and  then  became  synonymous 
with  hangman. 

5.  one  of  your  Bluebeards :  in  the  famous  nursery  story  Bluebeard 
gives  his  young  wife  the  keys  to  his  castle  with  permission  to  enter  all  the 
rooms  but  one.  Her  curiosity  compels  her  to  enter  the  forbidden  room, 
in  which  she  finds  the  bodies  of  six  former  wives,  whom  Bluebeard  had 
murdered  for  disobeying  the  same  prohibition. 

Page  343. 

6.  Abb6  Kakatoes  .  .  .  Marquis  de  Croquemitaine  :  apparently  invented 
names;  kakatoes  is  a  French  form  for  "cockatoo,"  and  L>oqiieiiiiiai)ie 
means  "  bugbear." 

7.  Palsambleu :  an  archaic  French  oath ;  a  corruption  of  par  le  sa)ii> 
Dieti. 

Page  344. 

8.  put  the  cap  out  .  .  .  put  his  head  into  it :  suggested  by  the  proverb, 
"  If  the  cap  fits,  wear  it." 

Page  345. 

g.   KTii(ia  es  del :  an  immortal  possession, 

10.  dies  irae :  Day  of  Judgment,  literally  "day  of  wrath";  from  the 
famous  Latin  hymn  beginning  : 

Dies  iras,  dies  ilia. 
Page  346. 

11.  Bardolph  .  .  .  Nym  .  .  .  Doll  Tearsheet  .  .  .  Mrs.  Quickly:  Bardolph 
is  a  rascally  companion  of  Falstaff's  in  Hetity  IV.  In  Heniy  Khe  accom- 
panies the  king's  army  into  France,  where  he  is  executed  for  stealing  a  pax 
(or  pyx)  from  a  church  {Henry  V,  HI,  vi,  41-51).  Nym  is  his  companion 
thief  in  Henry  V {\\\,  ii,  44-57).  Doll  Tearsheet  is  a  woman  of  the  town 
and  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Quickly's  in  2  Hetity  IV,  and  Mrs.  Quickly  is  the 
hostess  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  the  meeting  place  of  Prince  Hal  and 
Falstaff. 

12.  de  la  soci^t^ :  of  the  company. 


464  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

De  Finibus 
Page  347. 

1 .  De  Finibus  :  literally,  "  about  endings." 

2.  Stella :  Esther  Johnson,  whom  Swift  is  said  to  have  secretly  married 
in  1 716.  From  1710  to  171 3,  while  Swift  was  in  London  and  Stella  in 
Ireland,  he  wrote  her  daily  letters,  which  were  later  published  as  the 
Journal  to  Stella.  These  letters  show  a  playful  tenderness  and  a  capacity 
for  feeling  not  hinted  at  in  Swift's  other  works. 

3.  some  commentator  or  other :  Thackeray  himself  in  his  lecture  on 
Swift  in  the  English  Humourists. 

4.  Mr.  Johnson  .  .  .  touching  the  posts  :  see  Boswell's  Life.,  anno  i  764 
(Vol.  I,  p.  485,  note  I  in  Hill's  edition). 

5.  Dodsley's :  a  famous  eighteenth-century  printing  house,  by  which 
many  of  Dr.  Johnson's  works  were  published. 

6.  Green  Arbour  Court :  the  Cornliill  was  printed  in  Green  Arbour  Court. 

7.  Pendennis,  Clive  Newcome  .  .  .  Philip  Firmin :  the  principal  charac- 
ters in  Thackeray's  novels  Pendennis.,  T/ie  Newcouies,  and  T/ie  Adventures 
of  Philip.  The  final  section  of  the  last  named  and  De  Finibus  appeared 
in  the  same  number  of  the  Cornliill. 

8.  tamen  usque  recurro :  "  yet  I  always  come  back " ;  see  Horace, 
Epistles  I,  X,  24. 

Page  34S. 

9.  Woolcomb  .  .  .  Twysden  :  characters  in  The  Adventures  of  Philip. 

Page  349. 

10.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace:  Hamlet,  I,  iv,  39. 

1 1 .  Goethe  .  .  .  Weissenborn  .  .  .  Weimar :  Weimar,  the  capital  of  a 
small  German  principality,  was  for  more  than  forty  years  the  home  of 
Goethe.  Through  the  residence  there  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  Herder,  and 
Wieland,  it  became  the  center  of  German  literature.  Thackeray  resided  in 
Weimar  for  some  time  in  1831,  and  had  three  interviews  with  Goethe. 
During  his  stay  he  had  lessons  from  Dr.  Weissenborn. 

Page  350. 

I  2.  as  different  ...  as  Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Disraeli :   Lord  Palm- 

erston,  for  instance,  was  of  Irish,  and  Disraeli  (later  Lord  licaconsfield),  of 
Jewish  descent ;  the  former  was  prominent  as  a  Whig,  the  latter  as  a  Tory. 

Page  352. 

13.  once  on  the  Mississippi:  Thackeray  lectured  in  America  in  1852- 
1853  and  again  in  1855-1856. 


NOTES  465 

14.  Jacob  Faithful :  a  lively  sea  story  by  Frederick  Marryatt  ( 1 792- 1 848). 

15.  Vingt  Ans  Apres :  Twenty  Years  After,  a  sequel  to  The  Three 
Musketeers-,  both  by  Alexandre  Dumas  ^tV^?  (1802- 1870).  D'Artagnan, 
named  below,  is  the  adventurous  hero  of  both  romances. 

16.  Woman  in  White  :  a  novel  of  thrills  and  mystery,  by  William  Wilkie 
Collins  (1 824- 1 889). 

17.  a  la  mode  le  pays  de  Pole  :  "  according  to  the  Polish  custom  " ; 
the  internecine  quarrels  of  the  Poles  were  marked  by  the  utmost  barbarity. 

18.  Doctor  F ...  Mr.  T.  H :   Doctor  Firmin  and  Tufton  Hunt 

were  villainous  characters  in  the  Adventures  of  TJiilip. 

Page  353. 

1 9.  dilectissimi  fratres  :  most  dearly  beloved  brethren. 

20.  "Miserere  nobis  miseris  peccatoribus  "  :  "Have  mercy  upon  us, 
miserable  sinners !  "' 

2 1 .  libera  me  :  deliver  me. 

Page  354. 

22.  peccavi :  see  note  2  to  page  341. 

23.  perennial  brass:  see  Horace,  Odes  HI,  xxx,  i  :  Exegi  nwiumien- 
tum  cere  pereniiius  —  "I  have  wrought  myself  a  monument  more  lasting 
than  bronze." 

24.  Pythoness  :  the  priestess  at  the  oracle  of  Apollo  at  Delphi  ;  she 
was  supposed  to  be  inspired  by  the  god  with  a  spirit  of  divination. 

Page  355. 

25.  Mignon  .  .  .  Knight  of  La  Mancha:  the  persons  named  in  this  para- 
graph are  all  among  the  greatest  characters  of  fiction.  Mignon  is  the  mys- 
terious Italian  maiden,  the  daughter  of  the  old  harper,  in  Goethe's  WilJielin 
Aleisters  Lehrjakre;  Margaret  is  Gretchen,  the  heroine  of  his  Faust; 
Goetz  von  Berlichingen  is  the  hero  of  his  early  drama  by  that  name,  a 
play  patterned  after  Shakespeare's  historical  plays.  Dugald  Dalgetty  is  a 
soldier  of  fortune  in  Scott's  Legend  of  llfo/iirose,  and  Ivanhoe  is  the  hero 
of  the  novel  of  the  same  name.  Uncas  is  the  young  Indian  chief,  the  hero 
of  Cooper's  Last  of  the  Afohieans,  and  Leatherstocking  is  Natty  Bumpo, 
the  backwoodsman  who  plays  a  prominent  part  in  the  series  of  novels  of 
Indian  and  pioneer  life  —  The  Leatherstocki/ig  Tales.  Athos,  Porthos,  and 
Aramis  are  Dumas's  "  Three  Musketeers,"  the  companions  of  D'Artagnan. 
Amelia  Booth  is  the  title  character  of  Fielding's  Amelia,  loving  and  gen- 
erous. Uncle  Toby  is  the  whimsical,  tender-hearted  uncle  of  Tristram  in 
Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy.    Tittlebat  Titmouse  is  the  vulgar  and  simple 


466  THE  ENGLISH  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

shopman,  who  for  a  time  enjoys  a  great  estate  in  Ten  Thousand  a  Year, 
by  Samuel  Warren  (i  807-1 877).  Crummies  is  an  eccentric  actor  and  the 
manager  of  a  cheap  theatrical  company  in  Dickens's  Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Gil  Bias  is  the  title  character  in  the  famous  picaresque  romance  by  Alain 
Rene  Le  Sage  (1668-1747);  the  reference  is  to  a  traveling  company  of 
comedians,  with  whose  fortunes  those  of  Gil  Bias  are  for  a  time  involved. 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  the  good-natured  and  somewhat  eccentric  old 
country  gendeman  of  the  Spectator.  The  Knight  of  La  Mancha  is  Don 
Quixote,  the  hero  of  Cervantes'  romance.  He  is  crack-brained  from  read- 
ing romances  of  chivalry,  while  his  blessed  squire,  Sancho  Panza,  is 
intensely  material  and  matter-of-fact. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Walking  Tours 

This  essay  was  originally  published  in  the  June,  1876,  number  of  the 
Corn  hill  Magazine;  it  was  reprinted  in  Virginibus  Puerisqne  (London, 
1881). 

Page  357. 

1.  a  brown  John:  apparently  a  confusion  of  "brown  george,"  a  large 
earthenware  vessel,  and  "demijohn,"  a  large  glass  or  earthenware  botde. 

Page  35S. 

2.  "I  cannot  see  the  wit,"  says  Hazlitt :  the  source  of  this,  as  of  the 
other  quotations  from  Hazlitt  later  in  the  ess?y,  is  the  paper  "  On  Going 
a  Journey."    See  pages  310-31 1  and  316  of  the  present  collection. 

3.  a  peace  that  passes  comprehension  :  perhaps  a  disguised  quotation  of 
Philippians  iv,  7. 

4.  like  Christian  on  a  similar  occasion :  after  Christian  had  lost  his 
burden  at  the  cross,  he  "  gave  three  leaps  for  joy,  and  went  on  singing  " 
(Pilgrim's  Progress,  Part  I). 

Page  359. 

5.  the  merchant  Abudah's  chest :  an  allusion  to  a  character  in  Talcs  of 
the  Genii,  by  the  Reverend  James  Ridley,  who  was  haunted  in  his  dreams 
by  an  old  hag,  and.  was  freed  only  after  learning  to  "  fear  God  and  keep 
his  commandments." 

Page  362. 

6.  "  Though  ye  take  from  a  covetous  man  all  his  treasure,"  says  Milton : 
in  Areopagitica,  near  the  middle  of  the  work. 


NOTES  467 

Page  363. 

7.  a  volume  of  Heine's  songs  :  the  lyrics  of  Ilcinrich  Heine  (i 797-1 856) 
were  among  the  few  (lernian  works  in  Stevenson's  reading.  His  fondness 
for  Heine  began  apparently  during  liis  university  days.  See  Balfour's 
Life,  Vol.  I,  p.  117. 

8.  Tristram  Shandy  :  Sterne's  Tristrmn  Shandy  is  so  discursive  as  to 
invite  browsing  instead  of  continuous  reading. 

9.  joviality  to  the  full  significance  of  that  audacious  word  :  joviality  is 
derived  from  Jove,  the  chief  of  the  gods. 

10.  Burns,  numbering  past  pleasures  :  cf.  "  The  Rigs  of  Barley,"  stanza  4 : 

I  hae  been  blythe  wi'  comrades  dear; 
I  hae  been  merry  drinking ; 
I  hae  been  joyfu'  gath'rin  gear; 
I  hae  been  happy  thinking. 

Page  364. 

11.  Philistines  perspiring  after  wealth:  a  "Philistine,"  according  to 
Matthew  Arnold,  who  popularized  the  term  in  England,  is  one  of  those 
people  "who  believe  most  that  our  greatness  and  welfare  are  proved  by  our 
being  very  rich,  and  who  most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts  to  becoming 
rich  "  (Culture  and  AiuDxhy,  chap.  i). 

On  Falling  in  Love 

Stevenson  contributed  this  essay  to  the  February,  1877,  number  of  the 
Cornhill\  it  was  reprinted  in  Vii'ginibus  Pucrisque  (1881)  as  the  third  of 
a  series  of  four  papers  bearing  the  title  of  the  volume. 

Page  365. 

1.  Motto:  Midsiimtner  NigJifs  Dream,  111,  ii,  115. 

2.  cfeacle  :  a  gathering  of  men  of  letters,  artists,  and  the  like. 

Page  366. 

3.  the  Apollo  Belvedere  :  a  famous  antique  statue  in  the  Vatican,  repre- 
senting the  god  as  a  handsome  youth. 

4.  Leonardo  da  Vinci :  an  Italian  painter,  architect,  sculptor,  and  scientist 
of  the  Renaissance  (1452-15 19). 

5.  Goethe  in  his  youth  :  perhaps  Stevenson  had  in  mind  here  the  follow- 
ing sentences  of  Lewes's  Life  of  GoetJie  (Bk.  II,  chap,  v),  a  work  to 
which,  in  his  essay  on  "Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me"  (1887),  he 
acknowledged  a  particular  indebtedness :  "  He  was  now  turned  twenty, 
and  a  more  magnificent  youth  never  perhaps  entered  the  Strassburg  gates. 
Long  before  he  was  celebrated,  he  was  likened  to  an  Apollo :  when  he 


468  THE  ENGLISH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

entered  a  restaurant  the  people  laid  down  their  knives  and  forks  to  stare 
at   him.  .  .  .     The  features   were   large   and   liberally  cut,   as  in  the  fine 
sweeping  lines  of  Greek  art." 
Pa(je  367. 

6.  the  difficulty  Shakespeare  was  put  into :  according  to  the  tradition 
first  recorded  by  Dennis  in  i  702,  Queen  Elizabeth  was  so  much  pleased 
with  Falstaff  in  Henry  /T  that  she  commanded  Shakespeare  to  write  a 
play  showing  the  fat  knight  in  love ;  and  as  a  result  of  this  command 
Shakespeare  in  a  fortnight  wrote  T/ie  Merry  Jl^ives  of  IVindsor. 

7.  Henry  Fielding  :  see  note  1 2  to  page  248. 

8.  a  passage  or  two  in  Rob  Roy :  perhaps  the  following  passages  were 
in  Stevenson's  mind  (the  references  are  to  the  edition  by  Andrew  Lang, 
London,  1893):  Vol.  I,  pp.  215-216,  217-219;  Vol.  II,  pp.  241-244. 
Page  368. 

9.  nonchaloir :  apathy,  lack  of  strong  interest  or  feeling. 

10.  unhorsed,  like  St.  Paul,  from  his  infidel  affectation:  see  Acts  ix,  1-9. 
Page  369. 

11.  Adelaide:  a  lyric  by  Friedrich  von  Matthisson  (i  761 -i  831),  set  to 
music  by  Beethoven.  Stevenson's  admiration  for  the  poem  and  its  setting 
appears  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Sitwell,  dated  September  16,  1873  [Letters^ 
Vol.  I,  p.  60-61). 

I  2.  Heine's  songs  :  see  note  7  to  page  363. 

I  3.   Mercutio  :   the  quick-spirited  friend  of  Romeo. 

1 4.  Poor  Antony :  his  infatuation  for  Cleopatra  cost  him  his  empire  and 
his  life  ;  see  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

I  5.  Les  Mis^rables :  the  best-known  novel  of  A'ictor  Hugo  (i  802-1 885),  a 
work  greatly  admired  by  Stevenson  for  its  "  masterly  conception  and  .  .  . 
development,"  its  pathos,  truth,  and  "  high  eloquence."  See  his  paper  on 
"  Victor  Hugo's  Romances." 

16.  George  Sand:  the  nom  de  plume  of  Baroness  Dudevant  (1804- 
1876),  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  nineteenth-century  French  novelists. 

17.  George  Meredith:  George  Meredith  (i 828-1 909),  an  English  poet 
and  realistic  novelist.  A  number  of  Stevenson's  letters  are  addressed  to 
him,  and  in  the  essay  on  "  Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me  "  his  Egoist 
stands  with  such  works  as  Montaigne's  Essais.,  Whitman's  Leaves  of 
Grass,  and  Hazlitt's  "Spirit  of  Obligations"  as  a  potent  factor  in  the 
moral  and  intellectual  development  of  his  younger  Scotch  contemporary. 

1 8.  that  land  of  Beulah  :  in  the  Pilgrim'' s  Progress  the  beautiful  land 
in  which  "  the  Shining  Ones  commonly  walked,  because  it  was  upon  the 
borders  of  Heaven." 


NOTES  .  469 

Page  370. 

1 9.  magnifico  :   properly  a  Venetian  nobleman  or  grandee. 

20.  Grandisonian  airs :  Sir  Charles  (irandison,  the  faultless  hero  of 
Richardson's  novel  of  that  name  (see  note  54  to  page  306),  is  the  quin- 
tessence of  respect  and  chivalrous  delicacy  toward  women. 

21.  Daniel  Deronda  :  George  Eliot's  last  novel  (i  876-1877),  one  of  the 
literary  events  of  the  year  in  which  Stevenson's  essay  was  first  published. 

Pagi-  371. 

22.  the  marriage  of  Cana  :  there  are  three  famous  paintings  of  the  mar- 
riage at  Cana.  two  by  Paolo  Veronese  (152S-158S)  and  one  by  Tintoretto 
(I  518-1594). 

Pagk  373. 

23.  "  The  blind  bow-boy  "  :  the  phrase  occurs  in  Ronico  and  Jiilitt.  II, 
iv,  16. 

The  Laxterx-Eearers 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  Scribncrs  M'ai(aciiie  in  February.  1888.  It 
was  later  reprinted  in  Across  tlic  Plains,  7<.'it/i  other  Memories  and  Essays 
(1892). 

Page  374. 

1 .  a  certain  easterly  fisher-village :  probably  North  Berwick,  a  small 
village  on  the  Firth  of  Forth,  about  twenty  miles  east  of  Edinburgh.  Many 
of  Stevenson's  vacations  as  a  boy  were  spent  here  (see  Balfour's  Life. 
Vol.  I,  pp.  36,  67),  and  the  place  served  as  a  background  for  episodes  in 
at  least  two  of  his  later  works  of  fiction  —  Da^'id  Balfour  (cf.  especially 
Pt.  I,  chaps,  xiii  and  xiv)  and  Tlie  Pavilion  on  the  Links. 

2.  penny  pickwicks  :  cheap  cigars  of  a  type  well  known  in  England  in 
Stevenson's  boyhood. 

3.  cocknify  :   imbue  with  cockney  qualities,  citify. 
Page  375. 

4.  the  Bass  Rock  :  a  rock  island  lying  about  a  mile  and  a  half  off  shore. 
a  short  distance  east  of  North  Berwick.  In  the  Rebellion  of  1745  it  was 
one  of  the  last  strongholds  of  the  Stuart  cause.  Cf.  Stevenson's  description 
of  it  in  Da7nd  Balfour,  Pt.  I,  chap.  xiv. 

5.  Tantallon :  a  castle  (now  in  ruins)  about  three  miles  east  of  North 
Berwick.  It  formerly  belonged  to  the  earls  of  Douglas,  one  of  whom 
(Archibald,  d.  cir.  1514)  bore  the  nickname  of  Bell-the-Cat.  There  is  a 
spirited  description  of  Tantallon  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  this  earl,  in 
Scott's  Mar)nion  (Canto  \^   stanza  xxxiii). 

6.  the  Law :  a  steep  hill  at  the  back  of  North  Berwick. 


470  THE  ExXGLlSH   FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

Pa(;e  376. 

7.  geans  :  wild  cherries  (Stevenson's  note). 

8.  Canty  Bay :  about  two  and  a  lialf  miles  east  of  North  Berwick. 

Pa(;e  377. 

9.  coil :  tumult,  confusion. 

I  o.  a  tragic  Maenad  :  in  Greek  mythology  the  maenads,  or  priestesses  of 
Bacchus,  were  characterized  by  their  frenzied  dancing  and  singing. 

PA(iE   379. 

11.  the  Old  Bailey  Reports:  the  (])ld  Bailey  Court,  in  London,  was, 
until    1905.  the  principal  criminal  court  in  England. 

Pace  3S0. 

12.  "His  mind  to  him  a  kingdom  was"  :  a  modified  quotation  of  the 
first  line  of  Sir  Edward  Dyer's  (cir.  1550-1607J  "My  Mind  to  me  a 
Kingdom  is." 

13.  thimble-rigger:   an  adept  at  thimblerig,  hence  a  swindler. 

Pa(,e  381. 

1 4.  the  fable  of  the  monk :  a  widespread  popular  story,  known  com- 
monly as  the  story  of  Monk  Felix.  See  the  references  given  in  R.  Kohler, 
Klcincre  Scliriftcii,  \o\.  II  ( 1 900},  pp.  239-240.  Stevenson  may  have  read  it 
in  the  version  in  Longfellow's  Golden  Lciicnd  (Vi.  II ),  though  the  time  of  the 
monk's  absence  is  there  given  as  a  hundred  instead  of  fifty  years.  P'or  the 
material  of  this  note  the  editors  are  indebted  to  Professor  (i.  L.  Hamilton. 

Page  382. 

15.  (a  murrain  on  the  word!)  :  a  curse  on  it:  the  expression  has  not 
been  in  common  use  since  the  early  eighteenth  century. 

1 6.  Whitman  :  for  the  work  of  this  American  poet  Stevenson  professed 
throughout  life  a  warm,  though  not  uncritical,  admiration.  See  especially 
his  paper  on  Whitman  in  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books,  and  the 
essay  "  Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me." 

I  7.  a  kind  of  Birmingham  sacredness  :  the  meaning  apparently  is  that 
Whitman  gave  to  the  term  "  average  man  "  the  same  kind  of  authority 
that  the  name  Birmingham  confers  on  the  manufactured  goods  upon 
which  it  is  stamped. 

1 8.  Harrow  boys  :  students  at  Harrow,  one  of  the  great  public  schools 
of  England. 

Pa(;e  383. 

19.  Zola:  Emile  Zola  (1840-1902).  perhaps  the  best-known  of  modern 
French   realistic   novelists.     Stevenson,   while  recognizing  his   power,   had 


NOTES  471 

little  sympathy  with  his  artistic  ideals  and  methods.  "  Diseased  anyway 
and  black-hearted  and  fundamentally  at  enmity  with  joy '"  he  called  him  in 
a  letter  written  in  1882  [Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  275). 

Pa(;e  384. 

20.  By  his  fireside,  as  impotent  fancy  prompts,  etc.  :  the  editors  have 
been  unable  to  find  the  source  of  this  quotation. 

2 1 .  a  voice  far  beyond  singing  :  perhaps  a  reminiscence  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  "  He  talked  far  above  singing,"'  quoted  by  Hazlitt  in  "  On 
Going  a  Journey."'    See  page  313  of  the  present  collection,  and  note. 

22.  jibbing  :   balking,  contrary. 

Pa(;e  385. 

23.  Tolstoi's  Powers  of  Darkness  :  a  drama  in  five  acts  by  Count  Leo 
Tolstoi  (1828-1 910),  the  great  Russian  novelist  and  religious  writer.  In 
the  crucial  situation  of  the  play.  Mikita,  a  peasant  who  has  prospered  by 
marr\'ing  the  widow  of  his  former  master,  murders  the  child  of  his  step- 
daughter. Akulina.  whom  he  has  seduced,  and  then,  overcome  by  remorse, 
confesses  his  crime  and  gives  himself  up  to  the  police. 

24.  when  Levine  labours  in  the  field  :  in  Tolstoi's  Anna  Karenina, 
Pt.  Ill,  chaps,  iv.  V. 

25.  when  Andre  sinks  beyond  emotion:  in  Tolstoi's  War  and  Peace, 
Pt.  XII,  chap,  xvi, 

26.  when  Richard  Feverel  and  Lucy  Desborough  meet  beside  the  river  : 
in  (leorge  Meredith's  T/ie  Ordeal  of  Ricliard  Fe^'crel.  chap.  xv. 

27.  when  Antony,  "not  cowardly,  puts  off  his  helmet":  in  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.  W .  xv.  56.  The  quoted  phrase  is  from  Antony "s  dying 
words  to  Cleopatra. 

28.  when  Kent  has  infinite  pity  on  the  dying  Lear  :  in  Ki/io  Lear.  X .  iii. 

29.  Dostoieffsky's  Despised  and  Rejected  :  a  novel  by  the  Russian  writer 
Feodor  Dostoieftskv  (1821-1  88 1  ). 

30.  Itur  in  antiquam  silvam  :  "  Here  is  the  road  to  the  virgin  forest." 
The  source  of  the  phrase  is  Virgil,  Aineid  vi,  i  79. 


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